Project Hybrid
by Duskburn
Summary: LOTR/MATRIX Xover challenge! Chs. 1-5 up now, 6 soon. Ch. 5 The One meets Zero and we see some Smith angst as he is given the choice to learn The Truth. Wet Neo, mmm!
1. Chapter One: Elrond Peredhil

Disclaimer: This is fan fiction derived from the film The Matrix whose copyright is held by Warner Bros. Entertainment and Larry and Andy Wachowski. It is also inspired by characters and situations taken from the works of J.R.R. Tolkien, Stephen King, and the Marvel Entertainment Group.  
  
Dedication: This story would never have been possible without my dear cousin Tammy, whose most enduring name on the net is Xangrey Shadowstalker. She is the Magneto to my Xavier, the evil genius who breathed life into both Elrond and Smith and for whom I set down in writing the adventures they had. It was a great pleasure to devise and implement a plotline in our RPG that would allow the two to co-exist in one of the weirdest crossovers that we have ever done. I dedicate this to you, Tam, and hope that the story we made together gave you as much enjoyment to play through as it did me. I sweated blood to make this one work, but loved every minute of it.  
  
Author's Note: This is a crossover that was created for a role-playing game that I was gm'ing for my cousin Tam. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, you should be shot. Just kidding! Role-playing is a game where you bring a story to life by imagining you are the characters in a movie or book and you control what decisions they make and what they do. You are the star of the show and how the story ends can be very different than it does in the original, or you can go further starting off from where the original story ends. Much depends on how your character interacts with the other players' characters, and having a good gamemaster who sets up and enforces rules for the players to follow. If you want to know more about it, you can go to my webpage or visit us in #the_matrix_rpg on dalnet.irc. No, the storyline we invented with this fanfic is not implemented there, but some of the elements are present.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter One: Elrond Peredhil  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The pain of coming awake was dreadful, more wretched than any physical pain he had ever endured. He saw only stars, and for a brief moment was uncertain that he had returned to life at all, that the path Mandos had set him to return upon had proved too difficult for him to travel after all, and that Elbereth had gathered him back to her velvet, star-bedecked bosom rather than see his spirit swallowed by the encroaching blackness that was not night, nor mere absence of light, but the horror of the void and corruption. Then he recognized Carnil, and Menelvagor, and yes, there it was: the horrible red moon, the Hunter's Moon, like a terrible, wounded eye filled with blood.  
  
He had returned to life under the stars of Middle Earth, and reflected with some amusement that although his daughter and the Elves would be happy, many others would not. Morgoth slunk in the shadows beyond vision, nursing his own wounds and snarling at the light, flaying his servants in his rage and probably unsettling even the Dark Lord to the East, who was chief among them in the world.  
  
He thought he saw his father's star looking down on him, and chuckled at the moon.  
  
It came out as the faintest of hisses and a gasp, which shocked him a bit out of his reverie. No, the gasp was not his own, he realized, as a shadow moved nearby. The moon was blocked out by his daughter's enchantingly bewildered face, eclisped by the evening star...  
  
You are suffering from shock, he told himself severely. You're probably lying on the cold ground somewhere, having bled your life away, and only the breath of Varda has kindled its ashes. If you don't do something, you'll lie here making poems about your daughter to the sky until the night wind whisks you back to Mandos again.  
  
"Father?"  
  
He tried to say something then, tried to move, but he didn't think it worked. He was not quite certain except that Arwen continued to look down on him, her expression now hovering between ecstatic hope and black panic. It told him what he needed to know, that his body was a terrible mess, and his open eyes to her trained vision might signify not a return to life, but undeath. He really hoped she would look more deeply at him and that he would not have to contend with his own children hacking apart his tattered flesh and setting it alight. That would hurt even more, although it might be amusing to tell Gandalf later about the expressions on the faces of the Valar at his sudden unexpected return.  
  
Realizing he was slipping away from consciousness, he blinked his eyes once, hoping she would be paying enough attention to recognize the gesture. If she let herself panic and missed the gesture he as their healer had often instructed others to use in similar situations of paralysis, if he failed to communicate with her, Arwen might very well mistake the signs of life she was seeing in him for the deceits of the enemy and do something regrettable.  
  
"Father?" she said again, her voice trembling with near hysteria. "Did you blink? Is it really you, alive?"  
  
There was more movement to his sides, and his sons came suddenly into view, blocking out the stars with their wondering, grief-ravaged faces. He blinked again, and wondered if she would see it with the light blocked by their forms. If only the moon weren't already darkened with blood, and the stars were brighter...  
  
"The stars?" Elladan asked in confusion, and looked off as if expecting some new danger to appear, darkening the horizon. Elrond realized he had somehow spoken aloud. "What about them?"  
  
"Father, its alright, everything's going to be alright!" Arwen cried brokenly, and reached over as training overcame panic and she realized he was alive and very wounded and needed her skills. When she touched him, moving aside clothing for the fastenings on his mail, he wanted to touch her cheek and tell *her* that it was indeed alright and he was going to live, but he did not get that chance to comfort her. Love for her and his sons, his stars, and the whole world flooded his heart at her touch, but it also had a more physical effect of jostling his mangled innards. He fell gratefully into unconsciousness as shocking waves of agony swept through his body, and dreamed of Elros.  
  
The dreams at first were of their childhood together, when the choice that would forever divide the destiny of elf and man had not been made and the very special bond they had as twins was forged even stronger by the tide of adversity that separated them eternally from mother and father. Nightmares of flight through wood and dale with the distorted faces of their captors looming above them were relived, feelings of helplessness, rage, and grief as the sons of Feanor argued over their fate, and even sympathy for their kidnappers at the way their emotions bound them to a fate of what seemed eternal suffering. Momentary kindnesses: Maedhros sacrificing his portion of the day's scavenged provisions for them with a smile and a wink, Maglor huddling close with them at night to keep them from the cold, taking time away from their flight to coax a wild goat to give her milk for them.  
  
Passing cruelties: the shooting of a dove as it flew carelessly by, the detailed inventiveness in which they described what would befall their father and mother if they did not surrender the Silmaril, the beating of Elros for his brother's quiet stubborness in the face of the brothers' rage.  
  
Through it all, the sound of Maglor's playing and the terrible, desperate sadness of the verses of the Noldolante. The Fall of the Noldor became the twins' burden as well, a thing which had an eldritch life of its own and would inherit through blood, tears and fate and all the ages of the world.  
  
The Fall of the Noldor melded into the Fall of Numenor, and he recalled those days through the eyes of his brother. Though he passed into the unknown mystery of death long before Ar-Pharazon's seduction by Sauron, he felt he saw and understood all that had occurred through his brother and not himself, and wondered at it. Watching the descent of the proud lords of westernesse, he felt Elros' despair grow unimaginably until the betrayal of all he had wrought and desired was made nothing in the eyes of Iluvatar...and the sea.  
  
The utter conviction Elros had felt in making his stand with Men and not Elves, as Elrond had done, was betrayed over and over until the faith he had in his own kin had shattered and left nothing but a hole in his spirit for the Void to creep into. Only his indomitable will and stubborness kept his spirit from crumbling entirely where it dwelt, and becoming utterly hateful and vindictive.  
  
The fever visions ceased here for a time, leaving nothing but the emotions they engendered. Elrond drifted in and out of consciousness, allowing himself to be treated and remaining strong in his affirmation that he and his companions should continue and not turn back northwards. The Rohirrim must be warned, he insisted, of their neighbors' treachery, even were it to mean he be left behind so that they continued.  
  
Balking at such a declaration, they continued on southward and although the pain was great and his injuries grievous, his body was healing as the fever in him burned away the sickness. Even his daughter could not quite comprehend how this could be, but Elrond knew the fire in him was the blessing of Varda, and kept his spirit safe from what Morgoth had done to him while his body was weak.  
  
When he slipped into the dreams again, cradled on horseback by his son Elladan, they were of a vastly more confusing and horrible nature. In them his brother lived again, yet it was no true life but the shadow existence of the wraith, a ghost wandering in a dream plane where the minds of men slept and knew it not. Where he passed, they shuddered and fled if they could, and none could match his strength and determination to ensure that someone controlled the consequences of their foolishness when they would or could not. No one could match him...except The One. 


	2. Chapter Two: Agent Smith v2

Chapter 2: Smith 2.0  
  
The room was empty except for the cheap metal table with rounded corners and two cheap metal chairs, one of which he was sitting in. It seemed quite familiar to him, as he was certain he had been here many many times before, but there was something worrying at him. It was a minor inconsistency, but one which his mind, empty of other sensory stimuli, kept returning to, and he wondered if it was important that the temperature was 65 degrees Fahrenheit instead of the usual 68 that such rooms were maintained at.  
  
After a while of thinking about it, niggling around the edges of the thought instead of resolving it, another thought occurred to him, also a minor inconsistency. He seemed to be waiting here for something, and he was not at all certain that that had ever happened before. Oh, not that he had not been a patient person, he was as patient and inexorable as death itself, but it was the fact that he was waiting here, in this room, where he had always kept others waiting before. The tank, the cooler, the box, that was what this room was most often called, and it was a place where others waited for him to ask them questions.  
  
Was he waiting for someone to ask him questions? Yes, he thought that might be possible. But who?  
  
Who would be coming down the long hallway outside, their shadow darkening the bulletproof glass of the one-way window as they passed under fluorescent lights? Whose thick-soled black shoes would he hear squeak on the linoleum floor, whose firm hand would rattle the doorknob? Who would walk in, sit across from him, and begin to ask him questions?  
  
And what would they ask?  
  
He did not know. He thought about getting up, walking to the door and going to ask someone...who? But he was certain that door would be locked. He could break it down, of course, but what purpose would that serve? Where would he go? From whom would he seek answers?  
  
The First, he thought, and then contemplated who they might be. It was then he realized he was having trouble remembering certain things; that this was the process he needed to finish before he could complete anything worthwhile. He did not have access to all of his memory, and that was a problem. He thought he could feel it coming back to him, but there were questions...yes many questions...that were not being answered yet.  
  
And soon one of those questions would come in and begin to ask him questions. This was not a good situation for several reasons. What if he did not have the answers, or worse yet, what if he gave the wrong ones? What might this person do? If he did not know, then anything might happen.  
  
Why was he having trouble accessing his memory? Could it be that it had been wiped? How? By whom? For what reason? There were only a few answers to those questions, and none of them were good.  
  
He was in danger.  
  
The thought zoomed across his mind with galvanizing force, and he stopped looking down at his carefully folded hands and looked up and at the window, expecting that danger to materialize immediately.  
  
But he saw nothing, even though he was certain he should be able to see through the imperfectly tinted glass. He waited, and listened, sitting in the same attitude, for three minutes and fourteen seconds.  
  
Ah, there it was. The squeak of rubber soled black shoes on linoleum.  
  
Someone was coming.  
  
He tried to guess how tall they were by the interval between the sound of rubber meeting linoleum and could not. He tried to determine how heavy they were by the volume of the sound and the vibration it made in the floor and could not. He tried to determine how fast they were walking and could not.  
  
Something was wrong, not with him, but with the person, and he was in danger. But he wasn't ready to short circuit his options. He would wait, and they would come, and then he would adapt.  
  
The door opened with a squeal of hinges, and someone walked in, shutting the door behind him. It was a man, a human 6.25 feet tall, 165 pounds, brown hair, Caucasian, blue eyes. He was smiling, and there was no doubt that this kind of human smile was meant to project both gregarious cheerfulness and deadly threat. He had seen this kind of expression before, he was certain, in the faces of the deranged and imbalanced.  
  
But for some reason he was at a loss to explain even to himself, he found himself comparing the person who walked forward and sat down in front of him with all kinds of other images he found stored in his mind: weasels, tigers...wolves. Yes, there was a cross-match here somewhere. But it would take a little time to pin down.  
  
"Agent Smith!" the man exclaimed as if he had happened upon an old and dear friend whom he had thought succumbed long ago to a wretched and tragically onerous disease. "I'm so glad to see you!"  
  
Smith said nothing, merely watched the man across from him, and raised one inquisitive eyebrow.  
  
There was a long silence, during which the man's smile never faded, never lost its cheerfulness or a whit of its ferociousness. In fact, the two expressions merely became more pronounced, and again Smith found himself thinking of weasels and other animals. The one problem, he mused to himself, with this allegory, was that there was some unknown here, something between the qualities of man and animal that he could not yet decipher. He was not normal, Smith decided, and determined to discover why and classify it.  
  
At the same time, another part of his mind was assimilating the name the other had called him by. It seemed to open a lot of processes in his mind. Memories that had been unavailable to him a moment ago now suddenly were, and as he looked back into the other's searing smile, he allowed nothing of what he felt to emerge in his own. Instead, he smiled back.  
  
It was important when dealing with humans (or whatever this person was) to allow them to believe they had a certain amount of control over their environment. Allow them to think they had backed you into a corner, and then show them the one they had actually painted themselves into...and the exit you stood in front of.  
  
"And you are?" Smith asked calmly, almost pleasantly.  
  
"My name is Russell Faraday. And I'm here to help you!" the man exclaimed, seeming fit to burst with some inner terrible joy; a cannibal wishing to share the recipe of the secret sauce with the missionary he is about to roast.  
  
"In what way?"  
  
"Well, first of all, I must confess, I've heard a lot about you, Smith! Why, you're quite a hero to your colleagues, you know. So when I got the word about your situation, I headed right down here and just knew you'd be glad to hear the good news!"  
  
"And that would be?"  
  
"Why, you're going to be released of course! And isn't it grand? I'm here to grant your fondest wish, your greatest desire...to be rid of the stink of this zoo for the rest of eternity!  
  
"I've come with the keys of the prison and I'm handing them to you, Smith, to do whatever you want with them. All the world will be yours!" Faraday beamed.  
  
"And just how do you propose to do that? Are you trying to tell me you have the codes for the Zion mainframes?"  
  
Faraday threw back his head and laughed. It was the sound of glass broken by machine gun fire, and Smith grew weary of it long before it ended.  
  
"No! It's much, much better than that, Smith. I mean really, what good would it do you to get out of the Matrix anyway? The real world is a hole, a dead place, no place anything could live. And defeating Zion would gain you what? A deeper, warmer hole? Some people might settle for that but you and I Smith...we've got bigger minds than that, don't we? We've got plans! But listen, why don't I show you? " He leaned forward now, his eyes squinted in the seams of his ruddy face. "What do you say you and I go for a stroll? Out there...where it's real."  
  
Smith was debating what answer to give when a stray memory, searching for a cross-match, rocketed across his mind and left a scorched path he would have to analyze later: Thomas Anderson, sitting in this room, saying he had a better deal and giving him the bird. Why that came to him now he was unsure, but before he could decide anything the man had risen to his feet and gone to the door, beckoning him to walk through with him.  
  
When dealing with humans, it is always important to give them the sense that they had some measure of control over their environment... He interrupted that thought and focused on another.  
  
"I'm not going anywhere with you, Mr. Faraday, until my questions are answered to my satisfaction. What is it you are really going to give me, and how?"  
  
But even as he asserted his position, he felt it slip away from him. Literally. The room around him faded to a greenish blur in which only Faraday and his hilarious visage were fixed, and he knew that something completely unexpected had happened. The danger of the situation was worse now, it had escalated in some unidentifiable way that he could not comprehend and there was nothing he could do to stop it. One moment he was there in the room, the next his eyes blinked and he was surrounded by people, standing in the morning sunlight on a city sidewalk.  
  
And it was bedazzling. Why? Because as he adjusted to the rise in temperature, the brush of passing pedestrians against his still form, the smell of humanity assaulting him in all its myriad ways, he realized that it was real. That there was no interface program between his senses and the world, allowing him to see it as humans did, and the information pouring into his mind was directly affecting him and his body's responses. He had no need to simulate the illusion that was carefully grafted onto the world so that humans in the matrix could accept it as reality because it was reality and he was experiencing it: not quite as a human being would, no there were great differences in between that comparison he had yet to siphon through, but it was still real.  
  
How was it possible? He was not given time to focus solely on the problem. Faraday was talking again.  
  
"In the end, Agent Smith, you will go wherever I want. What I'm offering you right now is a chance to affect that destiny, to mold it how *you* want to, to stand at my side as the old ways, the old worlds are burned with the holy fire of destruction that will purify and leave room for new growth...a new climax ecology!"  
  
Smith watched him carefully as in the middle of the street, Faraday postulated and ranted. He watched as a pigeon, perched on a windowsill, caught Faraday's burning, jolly eyes and fell over dead of a heart attack. He watched as the sidewalk emptied around them, people not meeting Faraday's eyes. He knew why, of course, it did not take this sudden detour into Reality or whatever you wanted to call it. He had known the man was dangerous even before he had come into the room. Known he was not quite like anything he'd encountered before.  
  
"You're mixing your metaphors," Smith observed.  
  
"Does that really matter?"  
  
"Not unless you're actually trying to make yourself understood, which you're not. You're trying to confuse issues here, Mr. Faraday. I want some answers. Who are you, what do you want from me, what are you giving in return."  
  
Faraday pouted. "You're not even the least little bit excited? Come on Smith, don't you get it yet?" He strode back over to him, voice fierce, and clapped his hands down on his shoulders. "You have a body, Smith! I gave it to you! You don't have to go back to that *place* ever again if you do not want to!" Whispering now, his lips close to Smith's ear, he said, "All you have to do is serve me. Stand at my side." Quietly, expectantly, he leaned away again and watched Smith's expression for a long moment.  
  
Smith only looked back at him, expressionlessly.  
  
Throwing up his hands, Faraday crossed the street to a hot dog vendor, leaving Smith to ponder that statement for a few more moments. He watched as Faraday got two hot dogs from the vendor, an aging Mexican whose hands trembled as he poured onions and ketchup on the meat. Taking the bills Faraday handed him, he shoved them in a pocket quickly, out of sight, as if he were taking a bribe instead of honest greenbacks. Faraday seemed not to notice the man's discomfiture, but his smile was even brighter and more fierce as he crossed back and thrust a hotdog into Smith's hand.  
  
Smith looked down at the steaming mess and discovered that what Faraday claimed was quite true: he had a body, a human body to be more precise, although there seemed to be a host of differences he would have to sort out later. He knew this because the smell radiating from the hotdog was having an effect on his system that was somewhat similar to the impulses that presented themselves when the power he required to do certain things in the Matrix was insufficient to demand: that is, it made him hungry.  
  
He was horrified.  
  
But that horror did not stop him from raising the steaming mass of seared organic matter, biting into it, chewing, and yes, even swallowing it. It surprised him somewhat that the meal was gone so quickly. But he was not surprised to find that he still wanted more, even now. Greed was inherent to the human condition, tied to the flesh of the body, just as all other human foolishness was.  
  
He would manage it with more intelligence than any human had ever shown.  
  
Smith showed none of these emotions to Faraday. Wiping his hands neatly, he placed his trash in the nearest wastebasket and merely asked, "What now?"  
  
Grinning, Faraday winked and tossed his trash over his shoulder and began to walk away. "Why, we have a drink, of course! Come on." So saying he led Smith down the sidewalk again and into a dark, thinly populated bar.  
  
Faraday ordered them both two Jack Daniels, neat. He downed the first one quickly, his radiant grin seeming to warm the air around him. Smith noted that the air temperature around Faraday was 10 degrees higher than it was around him or any of the other patrons of the bar. There was no reason he could deduce as to why that was. He was still studying Faraday, had never stopped since this whole thing began. Smith picked up the shot glass and downed the drink in a gulp, the fumes making his eyes water and his throat burn. Setting the empty glass down he looked at the other one and studied how the light made patterns in its amber depths.  
  
Mysteries within mysteries.  
  
"Where are we?" Smith asked, edging it nearer to him.  
  
"New York City. The Big Apple of another world, not your own." Faraday began humming the theme to "The Young and the Restless" as the soap opera came on the small color television mounted behind the bar.  
  
"What do you mean, another world?"  
  
"Well hell, Smith, I couldn't take you outside the Matrix on your own! Damnation boy, you'd have had the skin flayed off you by now! And what fun would that have been? No, I took you here so you could enjoy the reality of a world that actually exists, actually has life in it. A Sun, a moon.stars.a sky that well, might still be on its way to being scorched by the greenhouse gasses, but at least there's still cows around to help do it!" Faraday laughed, vastly amused by himself.  
  
Smith pondered. "Cows."  
  
Faraday nodded. "Cows. Millions of 'em, shitting out enough methane gas to bring on the greenhouse effect all by themselves so that McDonald's can serve their gazillionth customer. Here, I have a pamphlet. You can read it in your spare time, well, assuming you have any."  
  
Faraday reached into his pocket and produced a folded, wrinkled pamphlet and handed it over to Smith. Inside were ten one hundred dollar bills, and Smith stared at them, unsure of their meaning. He frowned and looked back up at Faraday, whose eyes were twinkling.  
  
"I can see you're having trouble deciding. So I've arranged a trial- period. You can live out here and enjoy your vacation for 24 hours. Actually I'll give you a little longer than that, say midnight tomorrow. And then I'll come back, and we'll talk, and you'll tell me that you want to serve me. You'll stand at my side, and Reality will be ours to mold.  
  
"In the meantime, Smith." Faraday stood now; taking out more bills and laying them on the bar for the bartender, "Try not to get yourself killed. This part of town can be rough after dark."  
  
Smith frowned and watched Faraday walk out. He thought of following him and forcing the answers from him, but after all, Faraday was right. He did need a chance to sort out some answers for himself.  
  
For the first time in his life, he was alone. He could not contact the First, the progenitors of the Matrix itself.parents of the intelligences that dwelt there in the ruined remains of the old world. They were the ones who painted over the corpse of the Paradise that had been created so all might live in harmony and gave it to the humans to indulge in their necrophilia. And they had created the Agents to supervise this eternal act of buggery so that humans would neither destroy themselves nor the intelligences.  
  
Smith was out of it for now, alone, and suddenly he wanted to plug back in so that the First would tell him the answers to his questions as they always had. He hated Faraday, not because he was an unknown, but because he presumed to set himself over Smith in a way that bound him more to the Matrix than being inside and doing his job had ever bound him. The more he analyzed it, the more he saw the small manipulations and deceits that were being told to him, the information withheld. Faraday was doing to Smith what Smith had done to many, many others before. The difference between them was in the purpose of this manipulation, and it was necessary to figure it out.  
  
Who was Faraday, and why had he brought him out here?  
  
Staring at the untouched glasses of bourbon, he noticed that they still held the heat that he had noticed around Faraday. What did it mean, that Faraday seemed to generate heat as if he was a furnace, and could move Smith around like a chess piece? What was Faraday, and how had he come to be in his power?  
  
The answers would present themselves when he was certain of what he himself was, he thought, and looked down at his hands. He had seen the code, his programming for the representation of hands, when he had been sitting in the tank before Faraday had come. Now he saw no code but the genetic patterns locked within the skin cells of his hands. A possibility occurred to him and he discarded it. He may have been redesigned after Mr. Anderson had infected him, but he could think of no reason why he would be redesigned to believe he was human somehow. And the First would never make a program like Faraday to keep him in line. No, Faraday was not one of them.  
  
Perhaps he was a virus that thought itself Smith turned into a human. Or just strings of deleted and corrupted code that had somehow come together again and now wandered about, priorities and functions rearranged in a chaotic twist that would be better off eradicated. Perhaps he should seek a way to end his routines permanently.  
  
He didn't want to. The thought of it provoked a strong reaction in him that surprised him in intensity. He was going to survive, he would find a way to adapt, and he would do it well. He'd so much rather kill Faraday than himself.  
  
He needed to talk to the First.  
  
But the First were not there.  
  
Who else was there? 


	3. Chapter Three: GhostFlower

Chapter Three: GhostFlower  
  
  
  
The first order of business Smith concerned himself with was obtaining a hotel room. The whiskey fumes that surrounded him made the hotel doorman frown, but since (mercifully) he was wearing his usual perfectly respectable black suit and tie, he let him inside and tipped his hat when Smith gave him a twenty dollar bill on the way back out. It was more than most government hacks would have afforded him.  
  
Next, he visited a several pawn shops and obtained a laptop computer and small toolkit that suited his requirements enough to justify spending almost all of the rest of the cash Faraday had given him. There were things he could do to it to over-clock the wretchedly slow processor back at the hotel room; it was the depressingly slow internet connection the hotel provided that would hinder him. It would remain to be seen whether or not that could be remedied as well.  
  
After leaving the pawnshop, it suddenly came to him with great frustration that he was hungry again. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he entered a McDonald's and surprised the clerk by actually asking for their leaflet listing the nutritional information of each menu item.  
  
She had never heard of it, and the manager had to be roused. Giving it to Smith with one of those small, bemused smiles that spoke of the quiet contempt he had for those who actually ate the food there, much less concerned themselves with whatever nutrition might be gleaned from it, he took his break and Smith made his choices from it without comment.  
  
As he exited, holding his bag with plain hamburger and chef salad in it in one hand and his diet soda in the other, purchases slung over one shoulder, two men with their hands in their voluminous coat pockets brushed past him and entered the restaurant. Smith was nothing if not attentive to detail, and their attitude suddenly raised many red flags in the vast database entries of experiences collected in dealing with the rebellious and disaffected element of the Matrix.  
  
He stopped, and considered what to do. When the scream of the clerk inside came, he had already decided to act. Morosely, he noted that Faraday had not included his Desert Eagle when he brought him here, and added that to the list of grievances he had against the grinning freak. Then he walked back inside.  
  
One of the men was standing just inside the door as lookout, but unfortunately for him he was not doing a very good job. He was paying attention to the screaming clerk with the other's pistol held against her head when Smith walked in and tossed his diet coke in his face. The man brought his shotgun up in surprise, but he was panicking in his nervousness and squeezed the trigger far too soon. The glass window behind and to the right of Smith shattered, and in the next moment, so did the assailant's jaw as Smith dropped his burger and salad, reached over, grabbed the shotgun with both hands, and with lethal, inhuman speed and strength, wrenched it around and cracked the butt end of the shotgun in his face.  
  
The man crumpled at his feet with a sickening, gurgling scream, and Smith was already turning to the other gunman as he noticed what was happening behind him and switched his aim with an outraged howl to Smith. But he was far too slow. Smith had the modified shotgun already in place and with perfect aim he gave the man both barrels in the chest. Blood exploded onto the pristine white counter as the man's innards exited his back, and the girl shrieked again helplessly. Reflexively, the already dead assailant's finger tightened once, then twice on the trigger, and Smith felt the weight of two 9mm caliber slugs slam into his left shoulder and exit into the glass door behind him. It shattered, and the shoulder strap of the laptop disintegrated along with a good portion of his shirt and suit jacket. The device crashed to the floor, and Smith growled in irritation.  
  
He never stopped to wonder why he was still so much faster, stronger, and more agile than the average human outside of the Matrix. The girl at the counter stared at him, gape mouthed in astonishment though, as he ignored his wound and picked it back up. Not a single droplet of blood had marred her perfectly starched blue uniform shirt. Satisfied with his perfect aim, he looked down at the spilled salad and hamburger next to the now unconscious felon and discarded the idea of salvaging them. He thought quickly.  
  
"Does your manager have a jacket," he asked the girl, who glanced once at the two men on the floor and then back at him, unable to process the seeming non sequitur in her shock.  
  
"Wh-wha?"  
  
Smith sighed and took another fraction of an instant to consult his memory.  
  
"Bring me Mr. Sullivan's coat. Do it now," he said firmly but not harshly. He was not the terrorist here.  
  
She blinked, and for a moment Smith was uncertain as to whether he would have to escalate the urgency of his request by threatening her in order to break through the haze of shock he saw in her eyes. When she nodded and rushed back into the coatroom to do his bidding, he could not explain to himself exactly why he was grateful he did not need to consider that line of thinking any further. Instead of concentrating on it he bent down and searched the two men.  
  
As the girl came back and handed over the long beige raincoat, he pocketed the six stolen credit cards along with the two dollars and thirty two cents and sixteen shotgun shells he had found. Turning up his nose at the now crumpled, bloodstained joint of marijuana and the cheaply made pistol that had nevertheless managed to damage him, he slung the shotgun over the unwounded shoulder by its strap and donned the raincoat. A decent fit, as he had known it would be.  
  
He looked back at the girl. She was watching him, in curiosity now, the fish-eyed shock fading from her eyes. It never ceased to amaze him just how quickly some humans could adapt to their environment when they chose. He wondered if she would take the money from the cash register herself after he had gone.  
  
"Wait exactly five minutes after I have gone. Then call the police," he said, and turned to go.  
  
Her soft voice stopped him. "They used to work here you know. About a month ago Mr. Sullivan fired them 'cause he caught them smoking joints out back on their break. They were never mean to me though. Dev even gave me a hug once 'cause I told him my grandpa got cancer. Why'd they do it?" she asked, and her tone was both angry and grieved now. "I think he would really have killed me."  
  
"Don't worry," he called over his shoulder as he pulled the remains of the steel frame door towards him and walked outside. "They won't make you clean up the mess."  
  
Gritting his teeth, he continued out the door without looking back. He had absolutely no desire to look at the expression on her face.  
  
===========================================================  
  
Shotgun concealed under his newly acquired coat, he went into a department store several blocks away and used one of the credit cards to buy himself a new set of clothes and a much more appropriate trench-coat to go over them. He used the same card at the drugstore on the corner to buy a first-aid kit, then dropped the card in the gutter and walked back to the hotel.  
  
Once secured in his room, he made an attempt to disinfect and bandage his wound, but even with his flexibility found it difficult to complete the task adequately. In disgust he abandoned the effort and focused his energy on making the modifications to the laptop and Internet connection that he would require.  
  
It seemed he needed more assistance than he originally thought.  
  
===========================================================  
  
Mariko studied the watercolor before putting adding a touch of pink to the roses. The painting of the garden flowers was coming along nicely, she thought, despite her lack of true talent. Her work was competent, if not inspired, and she hoped that it would convey to someone else the same sense of peace she had obtained by meditating there. If not, at least the colors were pretty, and painting allowed her to find that peace in a different way through self-expression.  
  
It was the only true medium of self-expression she had ever been allowed in her brother's household, and she continued it here in her strange new life despite the incredible new world of freedom she now had laid before her. Too much freedom, she reflected, was not good for a soul that had yet to define its own identity within its scope. Zarathus had been kind enough to give her some meaningful labor to assuage this need for guidance. She hoped in turn that she was useful to him.  
  
Setting the paintbrush aside, she checked what was happening in the chat room. It had been a quiet night tonight, which was unusual, given the nature of the meeting place. Her duties as its monitor could be punctuated with the continuation of her painting without losing track of things, and she was in a very contented frame of mind. It seemed she liked to keep busy after all, and soon the work she contented herself with now would not be enough. She had healed, and the ghost was starting to believe there might be life after all worth exploring again.  
  
But now something had changed. There was a new visitor, and although not everyone who visited this virtual meeting hall was led to exactly to what they sought, it was her duty to monitor them as they came in went.  
  
In case anything of importance occurred.  
  
In case Zarathus should take interest.  
  
Half an hour later Mariko Yashida, also known as GhostFlower, was on her way to meet the one who called himself Shade.  
  
===========================================================  
  
Smith sipped his glass of water and pondered on the efficacy of the antacid he had taken an hour ago. His earlier hunger was gone, and it did not seem to be having much effect on the hotdog and extra onions he had eaten that afternoon. He wondered if perhaps the information in the corporate databases had been incorrect. Rolaids should be more effective than Tums, since the amounts of calcium and magnesium carbonate were greater per tablet. Of course, his acute indigestion was probably increased by the fact that he had never eaten before and had included straight Kentucky Bourbon in the hotdog, onion, and ketchup mix.  
  
It probably had little to do with the stress of his situation. Stress as a cause of indigestion and acid production had been proven to be much less of a factor in such cases as the common practice of consuming caffeinated products and over-eating in such times of stress.  
  
Needless to say, he saw no reason to actually buy any of the food being sold in the deli. A cup of water had sufficed in this instance as cover while he waited for GhostFlower to make her appearance. He looked down at his clothes and was satisfied they were not out of the ordinary in this neighborhood: blue button down shirt left open at the collar; grey slacks; black leather belt; grey trench-coat.  
  
The modified shotgun lay against his side underneath the coat: it seemed to him a lesser hazard than the laptop computer he had left back at the hotel room. After the incident at the McDonald's, he considered it his most practical accessory.  
  
Casually he probed the wound in his shoulder, the shirt and coat concealing the torn flesh. It was starting to bleed again but it was already healing, he knew: an unexpected bonus this strange new flesh machine had provided him. Smith studied the rate of tissue repair and pondered the implications.  
  
To his right and at the rear of the establishment, a toilet flushed in the restroom and a young woman emerged. Smith was waiting: he had already heard the small noises associated with her climbing in through the window and deduced that it must be his contact. The exercise seemed pointless to him, because if indeed he was being monitored they would no doubt have previously noted any and all exits to the deli. They would have seen who was coming to meet him. It also had the possibility of arousing the curiosity of the clerk, who was keeping a casual eye on the patrons who came in.  
  
Smith himself preferred entering through the front door of places whenever possible.  
  
GhostFlower, as she referred to herself, moved past him with a brief glance and a nod and went to the counter. Smith noticed the clerk's obvious surprise with grim satisfaction and re-evaluated his decision to trust anyone who called themselves by such a repugnantly sentimental-sounding alias.  
  
"Ah..I would like a turkey sandwich please, on a Kaiser roll. Lettuce, tomato, mustard please. Not the spicy one, the honey mustard." Smith listened to her voice and catalogued it. Despite her facility with the language, there were intonations suggesting Japanese origin, which coincided with her appearance. A lean, fit woman of average height, hair cut asymmetrically to highlight almond-shaped eyes already made large by the shape of her delicate, heart-shaped face. If you were not careful, you would miss the stubborn tilt of chin that indicated will and determination. In her graceful, self-effacing movements, she was expert in hiding it. But it was there, along with the two Glock pistols secured around her waist, hidden by her own long black trench-coat from the eyes of the clerk and other patrons but not from Smith.  
  
"Have you tried the knishes here?" She turned slightly, addressing Smith.  
  
"No."  
  
"Oh I haven't either, I was wondering if they were any good. I guess I will just have to buy one and see. Do you like knishes?"  
  
"I've never tried one."  
  
"Oh my goodness what a deprivation. Please heat one of the knishes up for me," she asked the clerk, and a few moments later sat down across from Smith. He looked up from his water, studying her expressionlessly. This was becoming needlessly complicated.  
  
Quickly she cut the potato filled pastry in half and slid part of it over to him on a paper napkin. Smiling, she took a bite of her half and nodded.  
  
"Mmmm it is good after all. Here now you have to try it, you can't come to a New York kosher deli and not have a knish," she avowed, speaking around the mouthful.  
  
"I see. Has that new maxim replaced the old one about taking food from strangers?"  
  
She chuckled and shook her head. "But you didn't get that from a stranger, it was made behind the deli counter. Oh well, if you don't try you're missing out on something special." GhostFlower took another bite of her knish and got up. After paying for her sandwich, she left without another word, and Smith picked up the knish. Underneath, he could clearly see some directions and an address were written on the napkin in blue ink. He sighed, tucked the grease-spotted napkin into his pocket, and bit into the pastry. This was all so very inefficient.  
  
After five minutes and 23 seconds, Smith got up and walked out. Chewing on another Rolaids tablet, he made his way down the sidewalk and followed the directions to what looked like a run down but well-maintained tenement building. He stood out on the step as it began to rain until the security door unlatched, and was briefly comforted and amazed by the falling droplets.  
  
Rain had always been the only thing that was remotely beautiful to him in the Matrix. The only thing that could be considered real in any sense of the word in that illusory hell.  
  
Opening the door, he went upstairs. A door opened as he reached the third floor, and GhostFlower beckoned him into the apartment behind her.  
  
"Please be seated, Shade," she said, and closed the door behind him. The special lock on it required a key card, he noted, and again he reflected that this place was quite secure and well-maintained for the neighborhood.  
  
Obediently, he sat down on the couch in the living room and waited for her to follow. After a moment she sat down across from him. She wore the Glocks openly now, having discarded her trench-coat, but she was alone in the apartment as far as he could tell. If she became a problem it would be easy to resolve. He had already had occasion to prove the competency of his physical reactions once this evening. Even wounded he was sure he was up to the task if the situation presented itself.  
  
"Now, perhaps you could be more explicit. We know the name of the person you mentioned, this Russell Faraday. I can tell you he is a demon that is very powerful, and that if he has taken an interest in you it is very bad."  
  
"A demon. What kind of human superstitious nonsense is this? I thought you would be able to assist me."  
  
"Why don't you explain what happened with him, and I will tell you what we know of him. We will do our best to assist you, I assure you."  
  
"Not if you're going to insist on feeding me some kind of mystical human delusion as an explanation. I need to know what he is, not whatever myths you have created in your own mind to accept the unknown."  
  
"Shade, it is up to you to believe whatever I tell you. But wouldn't you rather know what it is before dismissing it as irrelevant? Besides." she gestured to the window and the rain outside, "Whether you accept the explanation or not, is there really someplace else you have to go? It did not seem so to me when we spoke earlier. But you are welcome here in this safe-house whether you choose to believe what we tell you or not.  
  
"If you wish to go you certainly may. I do not hold you here. But I think at least you should wait until you have spoken with Zarathus."  
  
Smith regarded her for a long moment, his glance following her gesture then back to her face.  
  
"He is coming, then?"  
  
"Yes," she replied, nodding once. "He said he would be here shortly."  
  
"Very well. But I think I know already what you are going to say. Your misplaced belief in demons and the occult skews your understanding of the situation."  
  
"Perhaps," GhostFlower said mildly, "It would assist us both in understanding if you were to explain the situation more fully."  
  
Smith studied her, annoyed, then shrugged. "I have until midnight tomorrow night to declare that I will serve this Russell Faraday. According to him it is all I must do in order to keep this.body.I have acquired. He claims he gave it to me, a ridiculous and nonsensical statement which I do not accept. However he seems quite determined to prove this to me by performing tricks and deceptions which I have been unable to counter. In short, he purports to hold me hostage to myself. I do not know what his true intentions are, but it will not succeed."  
  
GhostFlower nodded thoughtfully, and then asked "Why not?"  
  
"Because my orders, the only orders I have ever taken or will take, come from those that created me. I am not like you." His tone was rich with contempt and scorn, and the strength of the emotion confused GhostFlower.  
  
"You say that as if you hated me. You do not even know me, or the person I take orders from," she said slowly.  
  
"Why do humans insist on taking things personally? I was not speaking of you as an individual, but as a species. Humans shift their loyalties based on resources to be obtained and allow their emotions to justify their actions. My loyalty to those who created me is unquestionable because I do not allow my own emotions to get the better of me. I am in control and he.is not.  
  
"I am a machine. I will not do service for some being that has presumed to set himself above us. I do not know how exactly he accomplished this deed, of taking me out of the Matrix and inserting my programming into a human-like body, but it will not gain him what he thinks to achieve. Faraday cannot manipulate me as he believes."  
  
GhostFlower mulled this over, her almond eyes studying him with concealed astonishment even his practiced skills of observation had trouble deciphering. This was a woman trained to mask her feelings, certainly. That gained her an increment of respect.  
  
"What is the Matrix? And why were you in it?" she asked finally.  
  
"The Matrix is not something easily explained to a human being. Their primitive cerebrum must experience it firsthand in order to comprehend it, and even then they do not appreciate its scope fully. If I were to explain it to you I doubt you would believe it."  
  
"Can you show me, then?"  
  
"I cannot. This place does not seem to have any equivalent, despite the primitive, ragtag attempt the population has made at creating a virtual network. It is far more complex and sophisticated than anything your mind has a reference for."  
  
"You seem so certain. How am I to understand, then?"  
  
Smith continued, seeming not to hear her. "It is a zoo, a place for the minds of human beings to wander through in as their bodies sleep, producing electrical energy for the machines to use. It is chaos brought into order only through strict control and management of the worst of human depredations so they do not damage themselves so much they are of no use to us. I was one of those who enforced that control. I was an agent." He stopped here, and frowned. Why use the past tense? He was still an Agent.wasn't he?  
  
"I see. So then, if you considered humans creatures to be managed and below you.why did you seek out Zarathus? You sound as if you despise all of us, and well, Zarathus' reputation is hardly one of keeping order and peace in any society, much less one like the one you describe."  
  
"I did not seek him out specifically. As I said I had little understanding of this place when I first came here. I learned quickly certain facts about who humans who find themselves in positions of desperation here contact in an emergency.when there is no other choice."  
  
"And so you found out Zarathus' name, and spoke with me over the Internet. And you say this was only a few hours ago? Amazing for you to discover so much in so short a time. Either that or his name is becoming even more wide-spread than we thought. Tell me, what else were you doing in this time?"  
  
Smith chuckled sardonically. "You mean besides being shot at and stopping a robbery in progress? Why I suppose I was procuring suitable clothing and a laptop computer from a local department store as well as finding a hotel room."  
  
GhostFlower raised one delicate eyebrow. "Stopping a robbery and being shot at? Is that the reason you have blood seeping through your shirt?"  
  
She was far too observant, he noted, looking down at his shoulder. His coat should have hidden the wound enough for her to overlook it. Certainly none of the other humans he had encountered had noticed it. But then, there seemed to be blood leaking out of the impromptu bandage he had made underneath his shirt again. It would have to be dealt with soon.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Is the wound one of the reasons you called for assistance? I have training in that area and supplies here if you'll let me look at it."  
  
It was one of the reasons and he didn't want her looking at it, but he also didn't want to admit either of those things. It was important to him to be self-sufficient within or without the Matrix and under any circumstances. But he could recognize where self-sufficiency also paradoxically required knowing when and who to ask for help when it was needed. This conflict had already been settled, he told himself, and was further irritated by his mind's seeming insistence on worrying at processes that didn't require further analysis. He took a fraction of an instant to reconsider it all, too small for anyone but him to notice and be annoyed by it, to answer her.  
  
"Yes."  
  
GhostFlower got up and went into the bathroom, retrieving the impressive kit of supplies that was kept in the safe-house for such occasions. Shade was still sitting there, his coat and shirt still on, a faraway expression in his eyes, and she wondered if she could have missed earlier signs of shock. With a frown, she set the things down beside him.  
  
"Shade? It will be necessary for you to remove your coat and shirt in order for me to treat you."  
  
Shade blinked, then nodded and began doing so. He had been thinking of much less practical things.  
  
"This changes nothing," he said almost softly. "You still revolt me no matter how much I am already infected with you."  
  
GhostFlower stopped and stared at him, completely taken aback with the menace and coldness in his tone. It was far more intense than the detached contempt with which he had declared his superiority earlier. However, it was mixed with something else of the opposite nature, and the contradiction made her consider carefully her response. She had been about to clean his wound so she could see it, but her hands were paused a few inches away from the bloody mess. For not the first time that night, she wished that Zarathus would arrive soon.  
  
"Will you allow me to touch you?" She asked, and without knowing why precisely. It turned out to be the right thing to do.  
  
He was looking at her now, the utter contempt and loathing in eyes shocked her until she realized it was probably for himself as well as her. Then she felt a deep sympathy. She knew what it was to loathe oneself, even if she didn't quite understand his reasons for doing so, she knew her own and was grateful when she stopped seeing that own expression in her eyes every morning as she looked in the mirror. His look faded as she gazed back, waiting, the emotions replaced quite suddenly by machine practicality and emotionlessness.  
  
"Yes," he replied tersely, and she began her work.  
  
"How interesting," GhostFlower said a few moments later. "The blood was already stopping. It appears to me your healing is accelerated beyond normal humans'. And there are no bullets lodged in your wound as far as I can tell."  
  
"They exited the flesh on the other side."  
  
"Yes, I can see that now. Will you tell me what happened?"  
  
"As I said, I halted a robbery taking place at a McDonald's. They had waited until I walked out of the establishment with my food and then held the clerk at gunpoint. I re-entered the restaurant when I heard her scream."  
  
"Wait, you heard her scream after you had left and were already out on a crowded sidewalk?" GhostFlower interrupted.  
  
He nodded, slightly impatient to finish his account. He wasn't sure, but he thought the pain of her ministrations was making him irritable. Smith wished he had merely allowed his flesh to heal, however he was well aware of the dreadful infections that could occur if the wound was not treated. He had no desire to acquire gangrene or blood poisoning along with his other 'infections'.  
  
"Yes, it was perfectly audible."  
  
"Why did you go back?"  
  
"That is a foolish question. If humans scream with the intensity she exhibited there is a clear and present danger to their existence unless they are victims of some kind of emotional disbalance. When I observed her behavior prior to the confrontation she did not seem to be insane or easily disturbed." But afterwards she would be, he thought and cursed the nameless girl again. She probably took the money from the register for herself after I left, he contradicted the renegade thought with satisfaction.  
  
"That was an interesting observation to make after being in her company for what, a few minutes? How could you know her so well?"  
  
Now he fully exhibited his annoyance with a narrowing of his eyes. He wanted this conversation over with so he could return to the far more important issue of getting her and her absent associates to assist him in getting back to the Matrix and in contact with the First. Perhaps if he became annoyed she would stop interrupting him.  
  
"I have spent a great deal of time observing and classifying the entire spectrum of human behavior available to me. It was necessary to my objectives to have a complete understanding of their motivations. My conclusions might be quite revealing to you if I were to share them.sometime when you are not otherwise occupied with the immediate task of treating my wound. Now do you intend to finish it adequately or must I seek attention elsewhere?"  
  
GhostFlower stared at him, then chuckled softly. "Very well, I apologize. I will continue." She bent back to her work, mercifully remaining silent the rest of the time. She even had the decency not to notice his slight grunt when her manipulations produced a particularly painful sensation that momentarily slowed his thought processes. GhostFlower merely continued in her ministrations and then helped him put back on his shirt over the new bandage.  
  
While she cleaned up the mess, he turned on the television. Almost everything that could be learned about the current state of human idiocy was reproduced for popular consumption on the airwaves here as it was in the Matrix, and he hoped to educate himself more fully as to where he was and who held power here. Instead of the newscast, however, he was greeted by the pathetic, ear-wrenching maunderings of some human creature whom he supposed was dressed up to look like a vampire on the music video station. Smith had nothing against music; in fact he enjoyed it. But what he thought of as music had little to do with the same kinds of emotional attachments human beings seemed to associate with it.  
  
He liked the music of the rain still pouring down outside the windows of the apartment.  
  
Rejecting the helpless gyrations of the performer on screen, he unconsciously flipped the channels until he reached the CNN broadcast. It wasn't until he noticed GhostFlower staring at him thoughtfully from the bathroom doorway that he realized what he had done.  
  
He hadn't used the remote. Nor had he gotten up to do it manually. And as he reviewed the background processes involved, he was quite certain he had not used the Matrix. It was painfully obvious that this was not the Matrix and therefore he should have had no abilities in that respect. The calculations involved in such a maneuver would have been completely different. The seemingly inherent nature of the ability had been similar, but that was not to be falsely associated as the same thing.  
  
It seemed that in addition to healing his body quickly, he had a sensitivity to and effect on electrical current and devices that used it.  
  
Revelation.  
  
He smirked, feeling better than he had all evening. His indigestion was a memory. Even the pain in his shoulder seemed to recede dramatically.  
  
But before he could consider it more deeply, the buzzer sounded in the apartment, heralding a visitor.  
  
Zarathus had arrived. 


	4. Chapter Four: Eye of the Storm

A/N: Ok, I debated for a while bringing in an OC then decided it didn't really hurt the story any and gave the chance for a good explanation of some of the circumstances without resorting to pure narration. Dialogue is one of the best tools I have always thought for moving a story along, and I had a hard time deciding which OC's to bring in and which to leave out because some of their dialogue is key to doing that.  
  
If you're asking yourself why I bothered agonizing, it's because I really feel that Mary Sues get a bad rap (mostly from annoying picky critics like myself). Self-insertion is not what you're supposed to strive for, I don't think, not if we're talking about just putting on Elrond's circlet and saying "What would *I* do in this situation?" meaning with your personality and character traits. I think you're supposed to say "What would I do if I were in *their* shoes given all that's happened before?" which means you step into the characters' lives and history and personality, not just their clothes.  
  
When a Mary Sue achieves this then it goes beyond what I consider the term. So you can flame me for hypocritically stating this story wouldn't be a Mary Sue in the beginning, I don't mind. You and I can argue over the distinction I'm making or whether I actually achieved my own goals.  
  
Also, this story is necessarily Alternate Universe. I mean, how could such a crossover not be? So the history and events of the LOTR books and probably even the Sil are being mangled here by me to make a lot of things possible that didn't happen in those stories. If you don't like that, why are you reading a X-over fic in the first place? Come to think of it, why are you reading fanfic at all? Ah.anyway! Things get more explained in future chapters so if you're just confused hang in there.  
  
One more note: Magolhith means The Mist-Blade in Sindarin.  
  
**************************************************************************** ********  
  
Chapter Four: Eye of the Storm  
  
  
  
"Perhaps a sling.torn muscles.he can be so stubborn though."  
  
Elrond awoke to the soft sound of his own voice in the silence of an empty room and opened his eyes. Could he really have fallen asleep again? This was becoming so inconvenient. He needed to keep his wits about him, needed to be awake and heal. But the fever still burned in him, although he was feeling far better than he had when he lay on the cold grassy downs between the Entwash and the Limlight six days ago.  
  
Where was Arwen?  
  
He looked around and recognized his room in the halls of Helm's Deep. He was alone for once, and smiled mischievously as he rose and stretched. Any moment now, Arwen or one of the other members of the small, strange company that had traveled south from the army of Lothlorien would come in and scold him for getting out of bed. Their love for him was very dear to him, especially upon returning from death in such a way.  
  
But death and the return from it, along with the items he still carried with him, gave him a greater sight than they could know. For which he was very grateful, although it was a selfish thing perhaps. There was much responsibility that sight gave him, and his spirit fought against the weight of it. The full weight of being High King of the Elves was greater than anyone except another who had borne that burden themselves could know, especially in such times. He needed to be doing things, and the others would have to accept it despite their good intentions.  
  
Elrond managed to make himself some tea, grateful for the small fireplace at the end of the room. He felt he had drunk enough water, not to mention other fluids his daughter was constantly urging him to drink along their journey and his subsequent convalescence here in the refuge of Helm's Deep. He had slept and regained consciousness at various intervals, helpless to hold back the sudden periods of black fatigue that would overcome him after unpredictable lengths of time. It was time to take charge of his own affairs.  
  
He knew what was happening outside.  
  
Feeding the fire a bit more, he slipped back into his bed and under the covers. He still expected Arwen or Elladan to come into the room and catch him, and smiled with amusement at the thought of the scolding that would ensue. He was still smiling as he drank the last of his tea, and the fever-sleep stole over him again.  
  
He awoke an hour later; hardly knowing he had slept. Reflexively he went to take another sip of tea, and discovered to his annoyance that he had dropped the cup and it had rolled under the bed. He also discovered that Elladan lay in the great bed beside him, asleep from utter exhaustion. He lay still for a few moments, then gently moved away from his son and leaned over the side of the bed. His hand stole quietly from beneath the covers and searched blindly underneath the frame for the recalcitrant vessel.  
  
There was a soft *thock*, and the sound of the cup rolling against the paneled floor. A moment later he felt it connect solidly with his hand, almost as if it had been searching for him as well. Bemused, he stared at it, blinking in the dim firelight, and contemplated what had happened.  
  
"It rolled under the bed and up against my foot," a voice said very quietly. It was so quiet and different from her usual bold tones that it took a moment for him to register the identity of the speaker.  
  
Sitting back up, he looked over at Magolhith with such a look of shy, mischievous guilt that she was hard pressed not to laugh. Well, not that hard pressed. She was as exhausted as Elladan and nursing a wound in her side. She winced as the chuckle escaped her as a soft wheeze and cursed herself for doing so. She knew already that his keen eyes would catch the reflex and he would ask about it. She did not want him to trouble himself in his state.  
  
Too late. Elrond slowly disengaged himself from the bedcovers and stood up despite the frown Magolhith gave him. Silently he approached her where she sat on the floor, legs outstretched before her and back pressed against the warmth of the stones framing the fireplace.  
  
"No, Elrond, I'm fine. There's no need for you get up; please, your children will carve me up if they find out I woke you."  
  
"You didn't wake me. I was already awake and needed to get up anyway. Now," he said, ignoring her softly spoken protests and kneeling beside her. "You would not have come in here if you did not wish to gain my attentions in any case. So then what has happened to you?"  
  
Magolhith glanced at Elladan to make certain he was still sleeping, then looked back at Elrond. His warm fingers were already loosening the haphazard bandages that bound her side, probing the wound there, and she succumbed to the inevitable. You might as well ask a nightingale not to sing as tell Elrond to ignore a wound, however slight. It was in his nature to heal, as it was in all elves to some degree, and she would not change it for anything.  
  
"Actually, I think I just wanted to be near you. You look so lovely when you sleep, the only thing better is to have you awake so that those seawater gems you call your eyes are open to the world and I can lose myself in their depths," she countered, trying to distract him.  
  
The complex compliment failed of course, though she knew by the hesitance in his eyes that he was wondering if she was going to kiss him. It made her smile. She absolutely loved it when he was shy, although it could be a sweet frustration as well. Only those close to him would see this side of him, despite the fact that he hardly tried to hide it. He was both a mystery and a revelation to all those who knew him. At times he was so honest, so forthright, and as merry as the warm summer stars. At others, he was as mysterious, subtle, and inexorable as a chill autumn wind.  
  
That was a good metaphor, she thought, pleased with herself. She would save it for another poem for him, another time. Right now, it would only be wasted. He was looking at her sternly now, waiting for her to respond to his question.  
  
"The orcs of course, and the Dunlendings. Saruman's forces. They attacked in the night, as you must know by now, and we had to fight them off at the gate. Then." She trailed off, not knowing how to describe the mad chase to head off the ones who had broken through in the caves below the refuge, the fury that had overtaken her and driven her, Gimli, and the others into the maze to slay them all. Blood lust was not a good thing for an elf to feel, she thought, despite the heady rush of power and ecstasy she felt when she was at one with her blades. You didn't have to lose yourself in killing in order to be satisfied in your skill. It was dangerous and corruptive, and it was another reason she wanted to be here in this room, close to Elrond. She didn't particularly want to talk about it; she just wanted to be here.  
  
"I see. So this was done with an orc-blade." He studied the wound carefully, letting his eyes unfocus slightly as he sought to find the extent of the damage to Magolhith's body. What he saw disturbed him.  
  
"You are poisoned," he said at last, after a long interval of silence in which the unsteadiness of her soft breathing could be heard.  
  
"Doesn't surprise me," she breathed, and managed a slight chuckle. "They are dirty folk as you well know, and coat their blades with all manner of foul things. We have seen worse than this scratch, Elrond, you yourself have felt the effects of their poisons in the war. I will heal; I am already healing."  
  
She drew in a sharp, pained breath as he probed the wound more deeply, and then drew out some of the poison on his thumb. The wound started to bleed more, but he allowed it to, knowing that the flow of blood itself was often a cleansing mechanism.  
  
"Remain there for a few moments; I think they brought my salves and things in with me. I will see what I can do." Rising, he went over to a high table at the other end of the room where Arwen had laid out all their medicinal supplies in order to have them handy. He was amazed to find a pouch containing a small amount of old, dried, but still potent athelas. He wondered where it had come from since he knew full well that they had used up their own supply quickly attempting to heal both he and Arwen on the journey here.  
  
After studying the poison a bit, Elrond decided that it was fortunate indeed that athelas was among the substances available. The particular poison used was one that would quickly sap the strength of the person unlucky enough to be exposed to it, while producing few initial symptoms that could immediately be recognized. It was not the sorcery of the Witch- King that fueled its virulence, but the Dark Art of another master who had come somewhat more newly to the trade than the Nazgul that stabbed his daughter.  
  
Betrayal, it seemed, had more symptoms than the pain he alone felt.  
  
But he could heal the effects of this particular treachery. That, he was confident in. The others might not be so easily remedied with his skills. And still others were out of his hands entirely.  
  
"I wonder, has anyone else shown signs of poisoning?" he asked as he mixed the athelas and a few other ingredients into an existing salve.  
  
"I do not know. I did not stay long among the wounded. But it seems reasonable to me," Magolhith replied, voice still soft.  
  
"I shall have to find out. I do not know if the skills of men are equal to healing the damage it inflicts."  
  
"That bad, eh?" Magolhith bit her lip as she shifted position.  
  
There was a pause. Then Elrond nodded in agreement, his back turned to her and engrossed in his work. She contemplated the graceful lines of his back, his thin frame clad only in the thigh-length tunic and breeches that he wore under his armor. Illness and hard use had claimed some of the flesh of his body, she noted, but it detracted nothing from one so beautiful in spirit that its light shone through in everything he did. If anything, it only made that light shine brighter about him.  
  
While his back was turned, while Elladan remained asleep, Magolhith could allow her feelings to flow through her and the salty tears to come to her eyes. She had not cried when she thought him dead, she had sent her soul after his, reaching out through the astral planes to bind his here before he was taken to Mandos so that he could continue with what was needed. With the people that needed him. And he had told her to go on without him and turned away. Now she felt like crying, when she hadn't then, because to see evidence of suffering he didn't even try to conceal, just went on caring for others as if nothing had changed, hurt her in ways that made her want to murder things. Had made her murder them in the maze below.  
  
She closed her eyes against the tears. Not the best way to honor such a man, if one truly loved them. It had made her feel better to have some vent for frustration down there. Now it felt empty, with the evidence that such acts truly changed nothing before her. But there hadn't really been much of choice for her. They had to fight, had to kill those who would slay them without a thought. They had come all this way in order to warn the Rohirrim, not knowing that Aragorn himself would leave the company of nine himself to do so shortly after they set out from the ruin of Dol Guldur. And so they had done, and now they were stuck until they could fight their way out. Not even the Elf-Lords such as herself and Elrond's family could turn this tide themselves. Not even with what Elrond himself bore.  
  
"Are you making miruvor over there, Elrond?" she asked, forcing her tone to sound light. She opened her eyes half-way to see what he was doing again.  
  
"What? No.Why would you think that?" He seemed to be just standing there, contemplating the rain beating against the darkened windows outside.  
  
"I don't know, it just seems to be taking about as long," she chuckled.  
  
".It takes weeks to make miruvor.and I don't have the necessary ingredients."  
  
"I'm joking Elrond.trying not to fall asleep yet."  
  
"I wasn't. I wish I had what was needed," he said softly.  
  
Magolhith sat up a bit more and scrutinized him. "Elrond, are you trying to tell me I'm dying or something ridiculous?"  
  
He turned around, bewildered. "No.I should be able to help you, Magolhith."  
  
"Oh that's good then. I thought maybe you were thinking miruvor was the only thing that would help with the poison, and really, I didn't feel quite that bad off. What were you thinking?"  
  
"Actually I was thinking that there are probably many wounded people who have this poison in them now. And that there are many of them who will die because they won't know how to treat it. I have to go down there and help. With the rain.they'll be cold and .damp."  
  
Magolhith was on her feet in an instant, grimacing with pain and exhaustion, but the natural grace of an elven master of swords had not yet deserted her. "Arwen is already there, and you're still not well yourself."  
  
"Arwen will not know how to deal with this particularly. She may not even realize they're poisoned until it's too late. I have to do something for them Magolhith," he sighed in frustration and started towards her, salve in hand. "You forget she was wounded as well, Magolhith."  
  
As he came close, she laid a firm hand on his before it could reach for the bandages, stopping him. "I do not forget that you also almost lost your own life trying to save her, and are still feeling those effects. She is much better now. *You* have to *rest*. Write them some instructions."  
  
He shook his head. "It would be pointless. 'The folk of the Rohirrim sing many songs, but write no books.' I will have to instruct the healers personally."  
  
"Then we'll find someone who can read them to them." She was not to be deterred.  
  
"Who would you suggest? I need to be involved anyway. There are things I can do for them their own healers may not be able to." Neither was he.  
  
"My lord High King, at the risk of sounding disrespectful, not everything in the world requires your personal touch, however lovely and exquisitely talented your hands may be. I will go and find someone who can read them. Heavens, I'll read them to them myself if I have to."  
  
"I will go with you. After I have seen to *your* needs." He disengaged his hand and reached for the bandages again.  
  
"You can't possibly have enough energy for all that," she murmured, with distinctively Magolhith innuendo. She was rewarded with a slow blush and aggrieved sigh.  
  
"I was talking about your wound. Its healing is the only 'need' you ought to be considering at this point," he replied, and began to apply the salve.  
  
"I know," she said with a smile that quickly changed to a grimace at the purposeful invasion, however gentle, of her wound. "You're spiteful," she mumbled after a few minutes, carefully studying the back of his neck as a distraction from the pain as he bent over the wound.  
  
"So I've recently been told. I have yet to figure out exactly what people mean, since I myself do not think I spend a great deal of time plotting against my allies. I'm sorry if this is painful, it will be easier to bear once it's had a chance to do its work and draw out the poison."  
  
"It's fine. And they're talking about how you, Mithrandir, and Cirdan always tend to come up with these side plans dealing with events happening West of the Misty Mountains without consulting the council. Celeborn is always muttering about hearing after the fact what this that and the other Elrond and Mithrandir have gotten up to secreted in Imladris. He is still fuming that he was not consulted on the matter of the Quest of Erebor. And complaining that Cirdan refuses to stir himself from the Havens to come to Lorien, but will visit you in your home."  
  
"Actually Cirdan most often sends messengers to us both and can hardly afford to leave the Havens himself. Crossing the Misty Mountains for him would be a grave undertaking. In any case, I don't think Celeborn will have to worry about plots being brewed in Imladris for some time now."  
  
Magolhith blinked. "He won't?" Then, "Oh, how stupid of me. It wasn't that I had forgotten, really, it was just that when I think of Imladris, I don't think of it as a place exactly. I tend to think of it as you, and the other elves there. And well, you're here, and.I am sorry to remind you of it, Elrond."  
  
He isn't really spiteful at all, she thought. It is just that he is so linked to all of us now, more so than ever before. Linked to Arda itself, and it loves him. He has no need to be spiteful, life itself responds to him, and perhaps people get what they deserve for a reason when they confound him. Maybe all the High Kings of the Elves are so attached. Who else besides Gil-Galad ever managed to make *me* feel guilty for teasing them?  
  
Elrond smiled kindly, and adjusted her bandages a final time before straightening and going to clean his hands. "It's alright, Magolhith. As I said before, it could have been much, much worse. No-one was there, and I was able to warn many of the creatures that dwelt there. I doubt the dragons got much for their spoils, either. Buildings can be remade in time." He began looking for quill, ink, and parchment among his things.  
  
"You say that, but I wonder sometimes if you really believe it," she commented, watching him.  
  
He sighed. "I do not truly wish to leave Middle Earth. You know this, and it is why we are here, instead of in our homes. Why I even considered becoming High King in the first place. Right now, yes, I am less concerned with rebuilding than cleansing the corruption of Arda itself. It doesn't mean I do not have hopes for what comes after."  
  
They looked at each other for a moment in silence, both their thoughts turned to a Quest they would not dare speak of. In mutual unspoken agreement, they turned their thoughts deliberately away from it. And though the weight of dread was on them both, they still had hope.  
  
"You said Manwe himself showed you the truth of why we were being called home," Magolhith said at last. "That Middle Earth was dying and could no longer sustain us. That the command of the Valar after the War of Wrath to return to Aman was given in order to save us from being drawn into corruption and annihilated."  
  
Elrond nodded, turning his gaze back to the parchment. His pen scratched briskly over the scroll. "They confirmed what I suspected after long years of watching the darkness grow, yes."  
  
"You did more than just watch, Elrond. And now we are here, and I really hope there isn't a need for you to go challenging Morgoth himself directly again."  
  
"Just our being here is a challenge to the darkness, Magolhith. The Darkness would be content if we left Middle Earth, but even happier if it had a part in prolonging our misery before we did so. I cannot say what else will be required of me in the future. Besides, I did succeed in what I wished to do." There was a hint of something in his tone, and Magolhith crept a little to the side to better see his expression from where she was behind him. Yes, she thought she caught the ghost of a self-satisfied smirk on his lips, and it made her smile too. This was her High King, she thought, and pride swelled in her own heart.  
  
"Mmm hmm.yes, you saved us all that time, and I will tactfully not bring up the fact that you died in order to do it. Oops.sorry." She could not resist teasing him about it a little.  
  
There was a long pause, during which Elrond said nothing, only glancing off into the gloom of the fire-lit room towards the windows shadowed in the night. Magolhith began mentally castigating herself again, wondering if she had hurt his feelings in some unknowable way, and moved closer to him.  
  
"Elrond?" she inquired softly, and he blinked. Facing her with an absent smile, he shook his head.  
  
"What is it," she asked as he still said nothing.  
  
"Just.dreams."  
  
"What dreams Elrond?"  
  
"I'll explain later. Let us go and find the healers."  
  
"Hmm.very well, if you truly insist."  
  
They left the room quietly closing the door behind them and made their way down the stairs, supporting each other like drunken Corsairs as their injuries weakened their sense of balance. Arwen, they discovered, had departed on some mission of her own just before they arrived. Ruefully Elrond thought she probably had gone back to his rooms to fetch something from the store of medicines there and smiled to himself at the idea that they had only just missed her. The healers also confirmed that none would be able to read his directions, but the mention of letters seemed to give them pride as they told him that King Theoden knew how to read. He had spent his youth in Gondor.  
  
After checking some of the wounded personally, they made their way back up the long stairs to search out the King in his chambers. They encountered no-one on their way, as all were either in preparation for the next battle or recovering from wounds.  
  
King Theoden was quite surprised to see him. He was even more surprised when the newly-made High-King of Elves in Middle Earth fainted away in a dead sleep on the doorstep of his rooms. As Magolhith caught him against her bad side, both their knees buckled, but she managed to support them both enough so the swooning Elven-Lord didn't bang his head on the floor.  
  
The scroll he had come there to give the King rolled out of his hand and onto the floor. It was somewhat ignored in the ensuing chaos. 


	5. Count Zero Plus One Interrupt

Disclaimer: Count Zero and Angie are property of William Gibson and not me. Though I love them dearly I can never claim them or Smith, Neo, Trinity, and Morpheus. They belong to the Wachowski Brothers and Warner Bros. Entertainment. This is fan fiction based on their works and I can never make any money off of it.  
  
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"Excuse me, but I'm looking for."  
  
The bouncer looked up from his copy of Swank and took in the speaker's appearance. Pushing his blue-tinted John Lennon glasses down his nose until he looked like some bizarre, steroidal cyberpunk version of Santa Claus, white beard and all, he studied the man who had walked up to him at the door.  
  
"You're Neo. The Count's in the Violet Room, down two doors to your left."  
  
Neo hesitated for a moment, wishing 'The Count' to hell for describing his appearance and arrival to the bouncer. Considering the fact that, to his knowledge, he had never personally met 'The Count', Neo was a little worried about how the hell he'd been described to the bouncer. He thought about asking the bouncer, he thought about how this could all be some bizarre setup, he thought about a lot of things and then decided the best way to find out any answers was to walk in and see who 'The Count' really was.  
  
Nodding, he followed the bouncer's directions and made his way down the hallway. It was early afternoon in the Matrix, a fact which was discreetly downplayed in this odd, high-class club by layers of billowy curtains that were draped over French doors left open to the South Pacific breeze. It wouldn't do to have cranky, hung-over patrons complaining about the light and blindly tripping over the many varieties of potted ferns, palmettos, and blood-red ginger blossoms. Then again, he doubted if the kinds of people that frequented this place actually rose before sunset. He certainly didn't see any of them around right now.  
  
He found the door, appropriately labeled with a sign in gold lettering on a vivid violet background. Listening for a moment, he heard nothing beyond, so he knocked and opened the door.  
  
The sight that greeted him was unexpected, to say the least. The only person he could see in the room was a man draped over a velvet fuchsia- colored couch. Neo sighed, looked around for anyone else who might be in there, and then walked over to the prone form of the man he assumed was 'The Count'.  
  
He was snoring slightly, a squeaky sound produced by his nose being halfway pressed into the couch as it was turned towards the door. He was actually wearing a much-abused white dress shirt, red silk sash, black silk slacks and Italian leather loafers, and as Neo turned him over, it painted a very incongruous picture with the baby-faced and still sleeping young man who wore them.  
  
This was crazy. Who the hell was this kid, who had the fashion sense of a baby vampire, seemingly no street smarts whatsoever, yet who knew enough about the right people who could get a message to the global terrorist Neo?  
  
There must be some kind of mistake.  
  
Neo shook the kid, who mumbled something about 'Angie' before finally opening his eyes. Blinking owlishly, he sat up and regarded Neo.  
  
"Dude," he said. "What time is it?"  
  
"2:33 pm. Listen, I'm looking for Count Zero."  
  
Yawning, the boy stretched and nodded. "Oh yeah hey, that's me. Sorry I was kind of up pretty late. Nice to meet you, Neo."  
  
Neo briefly considered the situation, decided he had come this far, and sighed. "You're the Count?" he asked with fatalistic resignation.  
  
Baby vampire nodded and grinned, holding out his hand to shake. "Yeah, that's what they call me. Though sometimes it gets a little old. Still, I got a reputation now I guess, it'd be kinda lame now to make everybody quit callin me that."  
  
Neo shook his hand reflexively, surprised at the firm, businesslike way the kid did it. No gangland stuff, nothing pretentious. Obviously, there must be something more to him than was visibly obvious. "Why do they call you that? Sounds like an old programming joke..."  
  
"Meaning count zero interrupt, reset all values to zero. Initialization," Bobby finished for him. "Yeah, I just thought it was cool 'cause I always wanted to be a cowboy, you know? Free-lance programmer ha ha. I thought it'd make me sound, um I dunno. Professional or something. Image is kinda everything where I'm from. If you don't have one you're nobody anybody serious takes seriously. But I found out that kinda life just ain't for me, after all. Still, here I am and I don't really mind it. Guess it became my trademark after all that happened."  
  
"What did you need to talk about, Count?" Neo sat down across from him in a pink leather chair.  
  
"Oh, I'm here to ask you to come meet someone. He says you probably won't believe me about it, so I'm supposed to tell you that your real name is Thomas A. Anderson and you used to help your landlady out with the garbage."  
  
Neo sat there blank-faced, staring at the Count. After a moment of thought, the boy spoke again.  
  
"Wait, I'm supposed to tell you it's Agent Smith first. Got the order wrong, ha ha."  
  
But Neo wasn't laughing. He already had his weapon out, and was standing up again, scanning the tastefully tacky room. The Count stared at him, shook his head and continued.  
  
"Hey, hey, it's not what you think. I'm just delivering a message, nobody's gonna jump out of the woodwork ya know. I'm serious; he really wants to talk to you. He's in a lot of trouble and he needs your help."  
  
Neo stared at the boy, shook his head in disbelief. "Agent Smith is dead. And if he's not, I can't imagine him wanting help from me. I'm the one who killed him. What you're saying makes no sense."  
  
Bobby nodded as if he'd expected this. "Yeah I know, but that's what he wants to talk about. He said he was re-designed since you um.infected him, and well.he's not in the Matrix anymore."  
  
"I don't get it. What the hell does that mean; he's not in the Matrix anymore? And do you even know what the Matrix is?"  
  
"Yeah, I know all about it. Virtual construct the machine intelligences designed to keep human minds busy while they feed off the energy their bodies produce. Look, if you just come with me to talk to the guy, I swear it'll all make a lot more sense. I mean shit, if you can handle the reality of the Matrix, I think you can handle what I've got to show you."  
  
"Kid, who *are* you?" Neo asked incredulously.  
  
"Bobby.I mean.it's a loooong story." He leaned towards Neo conspiratorially, totally ignoring the gun, and said "I'm not from around here."  
  
"That I might believe," Neo commented dryly.  
  
"Look, I meant what I said. I know the people he's hanging out with. It's them I'm doing this favor for, but it's not like I work for them either exactly. I'm kind of my own operator. It's hard to explain, but.I'm what you might call a ghost. I shed my meat years ago. So don't worry, I won't take it personal if you feel you have to shoot me. It'll just take longer to explain.  
  
"But at least you won't be shooting some poor coppertop. See, I don't need to inhabit one of their forms here. I made my own and left my body dead behind me. Saved me from some baaad shit man, lemme tell ya."  
  
"Are you insane?"  
  
Bobby/Count Zero laughed. "Probably. Most people are *way* too attached to their meat to ever give it up. Me, I didn't exactly have a whole hell of a lot of choice in the matter either, but I was cool enough to finagle a way out of the whole death trip." He shook his head. "You wouldn't believe what's all out there, Neo, it's worlds inside worlds. Ever read C.S. Lewis? It's like an onion, only one that peels both ways. Inside and out. I can show you.if you let me."  
  
Neo thought about that. Something in the kid's words rang true, when he allowed himself to bridge the gap of utter disbelief and think about it somewhat seriously. He looked at Bobby/Count Zero for a moment, letting the interface program slide away and seeing the code of the matrix in its pure form. What he saw was not anything spectacularly different from anyone else he knew that existed here, except that the code of the matrix seemed to lie over his outward features like an ever-changing, glistening coat of shellac. Underneath was more code, he thought, but not code like the Matrix.  
  
Bobby was definitely something different.  
  
"I can't right now. I have to speak with someone first."  
  
Bobby/Count Zero nodded. "Yeah ok. Just, the guy's only got 'til midnight tonight which."Bobby's eyes went kind of vacant for a moment, as if he was consulting some interior chronometer. "Time's different from here so it'd be like 26 hours."  
  
"What? Why?"  
  
"It's all a part of what he wants to explain to you. If I do it you'll only get confused and he'll probably be pissed 'cause he wants to explain it himself."  
  
"..Jesus. Ok fine, I'll meet you back here in two hours. There's some things I have to do."  
  
Bobby nodded. "'Kay. I'll just um catch up on some sleep or something."  
  
Neo nodded then walked out. He had to talk to Morpheus.  
  
Ten minutes later he returned to the Nebuchadnezzar and went to find him. Morpheus was fixing a valve and looked up as he came in, wiping his hands on a rag. Neo sat cross-legged on the deck nearby.  
  
"What is it Neo?" his melodic, charismatic voice conveyed his concern at the young man who sat across from him with a such a look of lost confusion that Morpheus felt a chill run down his spine. Something was definitely wrong.  
  
"Morpheus I.met this kid. He wants me to go talk to Smith."  
  
Morpheus raised his eyebrows. "Smith?"  
  
"Yeah I know. It's all screwed up. He says something happened to Smith and he's .not dead anymore. He wants to talk to me but.this kid is going to take me somewhere to meet him. In person. Something about worlds in worlds and Smith isn't in the Matrix anymore."  
  
Morpheus studied Neo for a long moment, trying to sift through the confusing statement. "Where does he want to take you? And are you considering going?"  
  
"Actually yes, I am thinking I should go. He won't explain exactly where we're going, I get the feeling it's some part of the whole explanation of what is going on with Smith. I know it sounds crazy Morpheus but.I want to tell you something."  
  
"Go on, Neo. I'm listening."  
  
Neo sat there, silent for a while. The ticks and hums of the ship enveloped him in some normalcy while his thoughts raced down the crazy avenues of his troubled mind. After a moment he focused himself and was calmer.  
  
"When I destroyed Smith, I infected him. I had to make myself the virus and break into his codes, break them down. I replicated my own inside him and in order to do it.I had to assimilate them. Some of what he was, Morpheus, is inside me. I know some things about him. Not that much, but what I do know is.frightening."  
  
Morpheus laid a greasy hand on Neo's shoulder. "Tell me, Neo. Tell me what you found out."  
  
"A lot of it is just what you'd expect. Machine coding. But there was more to him, there were.emotions. I'll never be able to accept the idea that the machines have no soul. You said they were sentient, and if human beings can have souls, if we believe in that, then they do too."  
  
"Is that what's bothering you?"  
  
"Yes.and no. I had no other way of stopping them; they would have just kept on going and trying to kill me if I hadn't killed Smith. What's bothering me is.there were things there that make me wonder about him. They made him very complex, Morpheus, more complex than I think they did with any of the others. It's intelligence, sheer intelligence that drives his code but it's also a lot of other things that don't quite make sense to me to put into the code of a program designed to just enforce the rules of the Matrix. It should be a waste, should be inefficient and something considered unnecessary. But it gives him something; it integrates itself into the trillions of instructions processed in a fraction of a second. It doesn't slow him down it makes him.more."  
  
"How does it make him more, Neo? Because he had emotions?"  
  
"It's not just emotion, it's.I don't know exactly what it is. That's what's frustrating me. It's as if they gave him everything they possibly could think of when they designed him, threw everything and the kitchen sink in there and for some reason the design is so beautiful it actually works. Works better than any of the other Agents we've seen.  
  
"He knows so much Morpheus. He knows.all of us.I think he knows every human being in the Matrix to some degree. Of course he's connected to the databases and retrieves information from there but it's like he's taken a lot of that information inside himself and done things with it. There were things he knew that I'm not even sure the rest of the machines knew about us. About humanity."  
  
"Well I guess that is why he seemed to be the one in charge. He's more advanced than the others, isn't that what it comes down to?"  
  
"Yeah I guess if you have to have a bottom line that is what I would say. He's so advanced I'm actually not so surprised that somehow he pulled himself back together after what I did to him. Either the other machines did it for him or he managed to do it himself. I had a feeling when I did it that even as corruptive as what I did was to his code, it might replicate itself over again and return. Kind of like a flatworm. Cut off the head and both ends grow back."  
  
"Into two new worms." Morpheus was not pleased at the mental image that gave him.  
  
"Maybe. Maybe in this case they just found each other and grew back into one worm bigger than the first."  
  
"Bigger?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
There was another long, contemplative silence. Neo's eyes were faraway, his thoughts turned inward. Morpheus studied him and thought about the possibilities.  
  
"Why does he want to talk to you?" he asked at last.  
  
"Maybe he's having trouble re-integrating himself. Maybe he thinks I can help him."  
  
"That makes little sense. Why wouldn't the other machines be helping him?"  
  
"Because." Neo looked pained. "Because he is infected. With me."  
  
Morpheus sat back. "You think they've isolated him from their mainframes so he won't be.contagious?"  
  
"That's the only thing I can think of. Maybe they isolated him and gave him time to correct whatever problems he could within a timeframe. Maybe if he can't they'll destroy him, which is why I was told he only had so long to live."  
  
"This is a lot of maybes Neo."  
  
"I know. But the kid wouldn't say more."  
  
"Who is this kid?"  
  
"He calls himself Bobby or Count Zero. I've never heard anything about him until now, but when I looked at him he seemed pretty strange too. I'd have thought he was a machine, maybe something Smith created or who knows what. But on the inside he's not like them. His code isn't Matrix code. What it is I can't describe yet. But it's something different. A different language inside a shell that lets him interface with the Matrix as it is. He calls himself a ghost, and I do wonder if he could even exist outside the Matrix. He said he lost his body a long time ago, and this was his way out of death."  
  
"How does he know Smith then?"  
  
"I don't know. He said he was doing a favor for people that Smith is dealing with. That he doesn't know Smith all that well."  
  
"Well what do you want to do, Neo?"  
  
"I think I want to go meet him."  
  
"I'll go with you."  
  
"No, I need you to do something else. Besides, if it is some kind of loopy trap, then both of us will be screwed. We can't afford to lose you, Morpheus." There was more than concern for the state of the Resistance in his voice, and it was painfully apparent to Morpheus.  
  
He didn't know what to do sometimes with the way they all depended on him emotionally; it scared him when he thought about how close they had all come to losing the entire Neb crew because they wanted to save him. Most of the time all he could do was have faith in himself and the words of the Oracle and pray that their human emotions, their human frailties, were what would save them all in the end. He loved them all for themselves and their individuality, but he was also a realist. It was a hard balance between to achieve with his idealism, but it was the only one he could find in a world that was also a duality. Two worlds really; the thick fabric of lies generated by the Matrix and the desert of the Real. Mirror images of one another.  
  
Morpheus thought about that in the context of what Neo had said, and made his decision.  
  
"What do you need me to do?"  
  
==========================================================  
  
Two hours, fifteen minutes and thirty six seconds from the time he had left the Count in the Violet Room, Neo stood at the end of a dock with Trinity and regarded the Count with a look of incredulity.  
  
"You want me to do what?" Neo asked him and the Count laughed.  
  
Trinity sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose, looking down into the murky waters of the Sound and shook her head.  
  
"Smells like shit," she commented.  
  
"Look at it more closely Neo," the Count encouraged. "Then you'll see it's not just polluted bay water, it's something more. It's the gateway I made, the door into *their* version of the Matrix, the place you and I have to go. I still don't know about her," He looked at Trinity and shook his head. "But I can't blame you for wanting someone else to go with you you know. He didn't *say* you couldn't bring friends so.oh well. No use worrying about it. Now let's go, come on guys. Just jump in."  
  
Trinity gave the boy a cold look. "Actually I'm staying here for now. Unless a problem comes up." Then she turned her gaze to Neo. She half- smirked and said, "You probably won't even get wet. What are you worried about anyway?"  
  
Neo blinked and gave her a half-mocking scowl in return. "How do you know that? I'm obviously not in control of everything."  
  
"Just yourself," she said quietly, and kissed his nose. "Hurry up. This place really stinks. If you're gonna go let's just do it. I'll be waiting here and if Morpheus calls I will come find you. Unless you want me to go with you after all?"  
  
Neo smiled at her and shook his head. "No, I think what we decided on was best. I'll go with Bobby." He looked back over at Bobby. The Count was looking up at the sky, a slight frown marring his baby face.  
  
"What is it?" Neo asked.  
  
"Hmm.well.you ever notice the sky in this place?"  
  
"The sky? What about it?"  
  
"I've been back and forth here for a couple years, mostly spent time in the clubs and stuff, you know, at night. Didn't spend much time looking for the sun, ha ha ha. But you know what? I finally noticed the most depressing damn thing in this whole world."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well the sky you know. It's never really blue."  
  
Neo looked up at it for a moment. So did Trinity. They stood there like that for a while, a strange tableau of black suited figures on the end of a Long Island loading dock, the seagulls whirling above a trash barge in the distance. Then Neo walked off the end of the dock and let himself plunge into its polluted depths. After a moment, Bobby followed, and Trinity was left alone to study the greenish tinge of the afternoon sky.  
  
It wasn't so bad. Neo did get wet, but the smell and the filth were mercifully kept from him, and he wondered why it was the water was able to come through when nothing else did. Of course it really didn't matter if air got through, did it? After a moment he realized that the little bubbles and glinting streams of water were taking on a new form, and the code of the Matrix was translating itself into something else.  
  
Translating his RSI into something else.  
  
He let it happen, watching the streams of data compose and recompose themselves, feeling the changes altering the fringes of his pattern. The glittering streams began to dull after a moment, and he felt the pressure of the water around him again for an instant before it was suddenly gone and he was standing on a rooftop. Instinctively he knew that what he was looking at was not a normal city; it didn't take his unusual sensitivity to digital information to notice the oddly perfect symmetry of a fully three- dimensional graphic, audio, and tactile interface.  
  
"What is this place," he asked as he felt the others arrive behind him.  
  
"A private network with its own version of virtual reality. It has its own rules and reason for being here on this Earth."  
  
"This is Earth? I don't get it."  
  
"Way I understand it, it's a different timeline. You're not in your Matrix anymore or even on the desert planet your Earth has become."  
  
"What is this, some screwed up version of Sliders?" Neo asked acerbically.  
  
"Ha ha ha.no.yes.you make up your own mind. It might make more sense if someone else explained it. I'm not so good at talking about magic," Bobby said cryptically, and gestured to a set of tall double doors that were set into the top of the building. "Come on, they're waiting."  
  
Neo turned away from the view, shaking his head and followed Bobby through the doors. He was studying the environment, the structure of the building, and looking deeply into its coding. What he was seeing confused him more than enlightened him; it seemed like the code incorporated some other element into it that made it into a confusing jumble of digital representations. In time he thought he could figure it out, but at the moment it looked even more odd than what he had seen in Bobby's code.  
  
They walked through the doors and got into an elevator that zipped them down several floors. It was both less and more detailed than the illusory reality of the Matrix; there was music playing in the elevator. Not Musak but what sounded like an endlessly repeating techno anthem. After a while he thought it sounded like Vivaldi's Four Seasons on crack.  
  
Who the hell was running this place? There was no way to tell...yet.  
  
The elevator doors opened, and Bobby took them down a hall where more double doors waited at the end. They opened as the three of them approached, and as they walked inside Neo felt the fabric of the construct alter slightly about them. It seemed suddenly more real, more detailed and intricate down to the reflections the moonlight coming in from outside the windows made on the shiny surface of the polished mahogany table in the middle of the room.  
  
At the table sat a woman, Asian in appearance, dressed in a black business suit complete with heels. The only incongruous thing was the set of Glock pistols on a belt at her waist. Next to her sat Agent Smith.  
  
He was also dressed in a suit, but it was blue, a dark blue that made the blue of his eyes seem depthless and not nearly as cold as the chips of glacial ice Neo recalled so well. More like the ocean, he thought, and the thought made him recall how wet he was. A slight smirk quirked Smith's lips as he pointedly looked down at the water Neo and Bobby were virtually dripping on the deep red carpet.  
  
Neo stopped, schooling his expression and refusing to play into the game. He continued to study Smith as he and the woman rose.  
  
"Hello...Neo." Neo wondered if Smith had to do some spontaneous reprogramming in order to call him that. It was a shocking change from the tones in which he had called him 'Mr. Anderson'; a thing more unexpected than he had prepared himself for.  
  
"Thank you for coming," Smith continued, then gestured to the woman next to him, who bowed to them both as she was introduced. "This is GhostFlower. She's been.assisting me."  
  
Neo returned the bow, as did Trinity and Bobby surprised him with doing it as well. There was definitely more to this kid than previously thought, Neo mused.  
  
"What's happened to you, Smith? Why are you here?" Neo asked without further preamble. For that matter, why am I here?"  
  
"Will you please be seated?" GhostFlower gestured to the chairs flanking the table. It was a medium sized table, Neo reflected, one that afforded a comfortable distance between those seated at it without seeming too formally distant. He considered the situation a moment, and then sat down. Bobby wandered over to the bar and poured them all some drinks.  
  
"You're here because I need answers. Answers that I think only you can provide. Something has happened to me Neo, and I need to know how to go about fixing it."  
  
"Why don't you ask the machines for help? I'm sure they'd be interested in your return."  
  
"Because I can't talk to them. I have been cut off."  
  
"Why would they do that to you?"  
  
"I'm not certain that they did. I believe it was the work of another being."  
  
"Smith-san has been marked by a demon. He was brought here, to this time line, for its own purposes and we must now seek a way to defeat it before the creature returns to claim him."  
  
Neo snorted. "A demon, hunh? Well that's fitting I guess."  
  
"I am not a demon, nor do I wish to be one's pawn." Smith glared at Neo. "But what GhostFlower is saying is quite true. It seems that there are other forces working behind the ones we know, Neo. And one of them wants me to work for it. I refuse."  
  
"You believe in demons now Smith? I'm kind of surprised you'd go for the whole magic concept. Mind explaining a bit more?"  
  
"Magic has its own rules apparently," Smith replied, soft voice intense. "I am not saying, however, that some mystical unknowable force is at hand. I'm still not certain what is happening here myself, or how it operates, or if it should even rightly be called magic. I have little patience for faith in mystical delusions.  
  
"However, I have seen evidence that---"  
  
"There's something wrong with your code," Neo interrupted, almost speaking to himself. "What is it?"  
  
GhostFlower raised an eyebrow. "You can see it? You can see the horror's mark? You shouldn't study it too much. It can draw the attention of the demon and the next thing we know you will be marked as well."  
  
Neo blinked and looked over at her. Bobby brought over glasses of rich red wine and sat next to Neo.  
  
"Marked. That's what that is? It's like.a darkness. An...infection." Neo was starting to think he might even see now what that extra element was in the code around here.  
  
Smith frowned deeply.  
  
"Yes the demon has a hold over Smith-san. He is keeping watch on him by marking his soul as his possession," GhostFlower replied.  
  
"Maybe you guys should start over at the beginning. What happened to you, Smith?"  
  
"You destroyed me as you know. I remember nothing after that until I awoke in a facility.in the Matrix. A being calling itself Russell Faraday came to me.to question me. Then it took me out of the Matrix and brought me here. Somehow it has transferred my codes to a .human body. "My associates here claim it used its magical powers to do so. I am skeptical of any being's ability to generate an entire human body and then insert my complex programming into it at whim, regardless of any supposed magical ability. However, it seems I must operate on what I do know, which is that it wants me to serve it and will demonstrate its power over me unless I stop it. Before midnight." Smith studied his wineglass. He was surprised and then annoyed at the urge to drink from it. It's not real, he told himself, and looked back at Neo.  
  
"You have a human body." Neo was a little taken aback; it seemed he was unable to fully process the idea of magic or demons. Well it was just too bad, Smith thought. Neo would have to find a way to live with it, because the truth was Smith was here for whatever reason and had to accept it too. Humans were good at rationalizing things so they could live with seemingly contradictory circumstances. Smith was just hoping Neo wouldn't fall for the same traps that the rest of his species were prone to.  
  
"Neo." Smith frowned at the sound of his own voice. It sounded weak. Maybe Neo wouldn't notice.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I need your help." There, he had said it, even if it had come out with a slight hesitance, a quietness he had not intended.  
  
"What do you want me to do?"  
  
"Answer some questions for me at the least."  
  
"What questions?"  
  
There was a long silence. Then, "What am I doing here?"  
  
Neo considered Smith, and was silent. How much could he, or should he say? He seemed about to answer when Trinity came in the door and looked around, then went straight over to Neo.  
  
"Morpheus says he has to talk to you Neo, right now," she murmured and handed him a cell phone. How could it even work here, Smith mused, and was slightly suspicious. Perhaps it was some complicated ruse.  
  
Neo took it and looked at Smith. "Will you excuse me for a moment? It probably has bearing on how I answer you." Neo didn't know why exactly he felt compelled to be considerate, but for some reason he didn't want to just leave Smith hanging. It seemed.unfeeling. And whether Smith appreciated the sentiment or not, he seemed to accept it. Although if he had to guess, Neo would say that his expression was more resigned than accepting. Smith let his hands drop to his lap and nodded. Was there a look of anxiousness in his eyes?  
  
Why did Neo feel this need to see emotions in Smith? Yes Morpheus had told him to watch Smith and his reactions, told him about the conversation (well it couldn't really be called that since mostly it was Smith talking) they had had when he was being interrogated. Morpheus had said he was more individual than the Agents, more complex, and more capable of independent thought. But it didn't necessarily mean Smith felt or reacted to things in the same way as a human being.  
  
Maybe it was the knowledge he had of Smith's code.  
  
Maybe it was what Morpheus said.  
  
Or maybe it was instinct.  
  
There was the fact of the 'human body' Smith had mentioned, after all.  
  
Neo shook off these thoughts and left the room. He wasn't sure how secure he'd be with the phone no matter where he was, after all, this was a place of Smith's choosing in which to meet. But he left anyway, somehow thinking that it'd be better to hear whatever Morpheus had to say away from the others.  
  
So he went back to the roof.  
  
He was gone for a long while, and Smith did not like it. Why couldn't humans just answer the questions straightly, why did it have to be like this? It put him in a bad position, and he was uncomfortably aware of Trinity's cold stare across the table. Usually it would have amused him. Not now. Why had Neo felt it was alright to leave her alone with *him*? Something had happened that was bad enough to skew Neo and Trinity's reactions, something that made this situation unpredictable.  
  
He hated Faraday more than any of the Resistance at this moment. *They* could never have put him in this position. *They* could curse him, shoot him, attack him in all manner of ways but they could never have put him in the position of being utterly in someone's power. *They* could never have broken him. Not like this.  
  
I am not broken, he told himself sternly, and willed it to be so. I will adapt to my environment. I will survive.  
  
"What is taking so long?" GhostFlower asked after about ten minutes.  
  
Trinity shrugged. "He'll come back when he's ready."  
  
Smith resisted the temptation to try to alter things to intercept the cell phone conversation, if it even existed. It would not be a show of good faith. If he had to wait much longer though, his patience with good faith, thin as it already was, was going to snap.  
  
He noticed GhostFlower playing idly with her watch, and realized it was not such idle manipulation at all. She was doing something. Trinity might notice...  
  
Smith got up and walked out.  
  
"Where are you going?" Trinity demanded coldly.  
  
"To find out what is taking so long." He headed for the elevator. GhostFlower got up, frowning slightly, and followed. So did Trinity.  
  
"Leave him alone, Smith, I doubt it will be much longer."  
  
"Why?" he pressed the up button on the elevator panel. "Do you know what this conversation is about?"  
  
Trinity glared at him. She couldn't believe she was actually speaking to this monster at all, but reminded herself about what was agreed on back at the Neb. Gritting her teeth she said "No, I don't actually. I just don't think Neo would keep you waiting unless it was *necessary*."  
  
"Well I intend to find out for myself. You're welcome to follow," he replied sarcastically, gesturing to the two of them who were obviously already doing so.  
  
The elevator ride up was tense.  
  
"How do you even know where he went?" Trinity broke the silence as it became apparent they were headed for the roof.  
  
Smith looked at Trinity, then over at GhostFlower pointedly. She shrugged and replied, "This is our construct. We know where everything is."  
  
"Your construct? You mean this mini-matrix?"  
  
"I suppose that is what it must be to you. What Shade...Smith calls it. The Matrix."  
  
Trinity glanced at Smith. "Shade Smith? What are you, an actor or something now? What kind of name is that?"  
  
GhostFLower looked at Smith apologetically, and he gritted his teeth. "What kind of name is Trinity, or Neo, for that matter? Besides it's one or the other. I wasn't using both at the same time. Shade is the *alias* I used to make contact with them." The way Smith imbued the word with such passionate contempt, both GhostFlower and Trinity looked at him, nonplussed.  
  
The doors opened and the three of them walked back out onto the roof. Neo was there, sitting on the edge of the false building, staring out into the digital representation of dusk in a nameless city. He looked over his shoulder and nodded to them.  
  
"I need to talk to Smith. Alone," he stated, and then turned back to the view. His phone was loosely held in one hand, his other was tucked out of sight in his coat pocket. Whatever was in there, Smith mused, was not the size and weight that a gun or other weapon would require, but Neo was inventive so it was hard to say.  
  
In any case it hardly mattered. He found he truly did not care whether Neo was doing some silly plot to get him alone and kill him. This whole situation had lost any semblance of predictability to him. In fact, he was damned curious and full of dread at the same time. They were all standing there, motionless for an instant. Smith noticed that there was no wind.  
  
After a long moment Trinity and GhostFlower went back inside and Smith walked over to the edge where Neo sat. He knew the others were vastly unhappy at this situation too, but instead of that knowledge pleasing him he was once again upset. Following some uncharacteristic impulse, he sat down next to Neo and swung his legs off the edge.  
  
His voice an intensely enigmatic combination of soft querulousness and steely determination he asked, "What did you learn?"  
  
Neo took a long moment to answer, and then looked over at him. The expression was hard to decipher for Smith, who was quite used to reading human impulses and emotions as they flashed across their traitorous faces. There was an image that came to him as a comparison, but its similarity was debatable because of the disparity in facial features. It was perhaps 78 percent the same look he had seen on Morpheus' face as he had drawn into himself before Smith had interrogated him at the Federal Building. It was disturbing, and Smith did not like the connotations.  
  
"Smith I am going to offer you a choice." Neo's eyes were dark and unreadable behind his sunglasses, even to Smith. "It's a choice between the truth and the lies, about what you are...and what you are supposed to be. Before I tell you what it is, I have to know that you trust us. I have to trust you."  
  
"What are you saying, Neo?" A tinge of impatience and...fear? crept into his voice. He hated it for a nanosecond, and then ignored it.  
  
Neo pulled his hand out of his pocket, and Smith watched the movement in his peripheral vision while keeping his attention focused mainly on Neo's face still. In case he was being misdirected. But he found his gaze dragged to what Neo held in his hand anyway, so surprised at what it contained that he could not help himself.  
  
It was a small case of ebony wood, polished to such a degree that reflections could be seen in its matte depths. It had little silver hinges that clicked softly as it was opened, and inside on the velvet interior lay two capsules.  
  
One was red. The other was blue.  
  
Neo took them out and held them in his closed palm for a moment, then with a barely audible sigh (Smith heard it though, right now he thought he could hear everything), he turned his hand over and offered them to Smith.  
  
"What is this?" Smith heard himself growl. "What does this mean?"  
  
"It means that I am offering you the same choice I once was given. It's not a great choice, really, and I know that. On the one hand, I give you the chance to hear the truth about yourself as far as we know it to be. I will tell you everything I know. On the other hand, I give you the chance to remain as you are, and go on doing...whatever it is you want to do."  
  
"How does taking that pill mean you trust me enough to tell me...everything?"  
  
"Because the red one has a tracer program in it. One I devised, that will let me know where you are at all times. It will be integrated into your code and become permanent."  
  
"I'm sure that's not the only thing it does. And the other?"  
  
"Is another program that will cause your operations to shut down for a short period of time in which Trinity and I leave and go back home. When you come back online nothing will have changed, you will still be who and what you are and you can believe...whatever you want to believe."  
  
"It seems both choices involve a certain amount of trust being given here...Neo."  
  
Neo shrugged. "It's up to you. I'm not going to tell you much of anything anyway if you don't take the red one. You decide. Are we all here because you really trust me and believe I have the information you want to know, believe that it will change the way you think about everything, or do you think that asking me to come here was a mistake and you want to do all this...separately?  
  
"I will tell you this: I think that despite how much we have always been on opposite sides to this point in a war without end...I think we might be fighting the same thing without realizing it. There is something bigger even than the war between man and machine going on here Smith, and your part and mine is even stranger than any of us have known.  
  
"Also, you have to think of this. If I put that program inside you, I already know what you can do with it. I made it, and it's linked to me. I know that you will be able to possibly reverse it and find me where I am. That's the problem with tracers, you know. If people know how to figure them out, they are easy to link back to the source of detection. At least, it's true in terms of things the machines have done. So it will be true in terms of this program too, if you can figure it out. Do you understand?"  
  
"Yes. I understand." But he wasn't entirely certain, not at all.  
  
Neo nodded. "Okay. Then I've told you what you need to know to make the choice. Which one is it going to be?" Now he had put the case away, and held each pill in one hand, like in a game you'd play with a child.  
  
For the first time in his existence, Smith thought he understood what it felt like to be a child. Like all the emotions he had ever had, this one disturbed and unsettled him, and he had to fight them in order to keep them isolated from the pure calculations another part of his vast intelligence was capable of.  
  
Trust, Neo was talking about. There was only one thing Smith had ever trusted, and it was immutable. It had always been immutable and was more eternal and unshakable than any god or faith any human had ever had. His trust was in his creators, The First, and their purpose in designing him. His present circumstances had not changed that, only the means by which he must adapt because of them. They had given him the ability to adapt to his environment. Therefore what he decided to do could not be flawed, even if it seemed contrary to his original purpose on the surface. It was a fundamental of his design, a foundation from which there could be no wandering, and yet one that caused him mental agony at this time.  
  
What was he changing into, that he could sit here and contemplate giving his faith into the hands of this...terrorist? That he had asked him for his help, even? Had consorted with the terrorists of another world, a criminal group that operated in that place in much the same way he knew the Resistance of his world did, and was something he was so familiar with that he knew he could manipulate it for his own ends by a careful doling out of bits of emotion and thought that they could understand and sympathize with.  
  
They would want to help him, this GhostFlower and her associates, as would Neo and his, because they would see certain things he wanted them to. They would assume things based on their own sense of individuality and humanity. They would understand, they thought, what he must be going through. Their judgment would be clouded, as his was not, by the introduction of things beyond their frame of reference such as this demon and magic, whatever they really were.  
  
To deny him his plea, to turn their backs to him, would be denying themselves and their own principles. And the terrorists had them, he believed, had their principles and their false sense of righteousness, as every human being believed in one sense or another that they were the heroes of their own stories. Some were grander and more ambitious than others, but everyone was their own protagonist. To deny him was to deny themselves, and as contrary and faithless as they had shown themselves to be over and over again to each other in the Matrix and in the history of the so called real world, these terrorists could not do that. To turn him away without a thought was not their way. Their whole belief centered on the idea that they had a right to choose their own foolish destiny in this life, and should a machine show signs that it was trying to do the same thing, they might be suspicious of it but they would think about it. They would want to live up to their own image of themselves, however false it was. They would try.  
  
And so they had, and he was here now, the prime threat, sitting next to him and asking him to give them the same trust they had denied giving the Matrix and by extension, Smith, by their existence outside of it. The irony of it all was so bitter and forceful he grimaced, imagining the feeling to be so intense that it flooded his entire being and left a taste in his mouth like blood. Human imagery, human choices.  
  
What was he becoming? What would he become if he allowed his programming to change so far as to let a human being alter it now, after so many many years of denying them that right they so wantonly assumed was their due?  
  
"What are you thinking about?" Neo asked softly, and it actually startled Smith. He felt uneasiness crawl over him with the filthy grotesque fingers of leper, and for a moment could not formulate a reply.  
  
"Death," he answered in a voice harsh with emotion he suddenly did not care if he showed. Then he reached out and took the red pill. From somewhere, Neo produced a tall glass of water and Smith grinned or grimaced, he wasn't sure. Even now Neo was already learning about this other Matrix-like place, learning to manipulate the rules of this ridiculous illusion that was not the Matrix but some kind of pre-Matrix, another world's vision of the same thing. He almost refused the glass, then laughed at himself internally and downed the pill with a long swallow of water from it.  
  
It was fitting. It was appropriate. He wondered how bitter the pills would taste, the illusory one he swallowed now as if he were subject to human laws of nature, and the one that was more real to him than it: the pill supposedly containing the greater truth of his existence and purpose. He was surprised that the one being 'digested' now by his systems was not 'bitter' at all, actually, and meshed somehow with his existing infrastructure. It was...sweet. If there was such a thing.  
  
He didn't know if he could stand it if the other one was the same way.  
  
Slowly Neo put away the other pill and sat contemplating Smith's expression. Then he began to speak, and the truth was much harsher than anything he had extrapolated prior to this point. 


End file.
